Finding the Point

Losing your self. A sonnet.

Cuivre River State Park near Troy, Missouri © Patrick Rolands

In dried out river beds you pick through rocks,
in plowed up fields you toe at clods of dirt
for hours — for years — you hope each wedge of flint
reveals itself for the relic you seek.
With books and maps you train your eyes for years
and teach your heart to settle for the hunt
as meditation. Then, without a hint
of warning, one day, it all disappears.

There are no shadows separating stones,
and every line once written on the earth
or carved into your memory is worth
nothing. Some ancient pulse now shakes your bones
as your knees meet the dirt above the dead
and your hands hold a broken arrowhead.