The Marjorie E. Peale Prize
What You Gave Me
In the late afternoon sky
the curved smile of the all-alone moon
hangs with clouds in the salt marsh.
Here at Bos'in Point, you find this arrowhead
in rutted sand and pass it from your hand to mine—
What mysteries come with this?
Under what moon was it shaped?
And from whose hand has it passed?
The moon is as silent as the spirit,
a shaman who led you to this
thick-with-thumbprints obsidian blade
ancient as tide itself.
You have found it and given it life—
it lies in the palm of my hand,
passed from some primeval creator
through history to me, to us—
its point and serrated edges
an unimagined and elegant piercing,
sacred and long ago as the moon.