Janice Townley Moore
Living on the site of Fort Hembree,
we hear the moan of wind
circling our house.
We show guests the greenest spot
on the lawn where the sunken well
now yields a weeping cherry.
Our son finds stones in the garden,
declaring them arrowheads,
and disks of granite
where he says Indians once ground corn.
Today he brings for my belief
two jagged triangles, says
This little Indian was just starting
to make arrowheads
and that’s as good as he could carve.
These with a dozen tomahawk heads
smoothed by the creek
line our carport for all to admire.
We bruise our toes upon them in the dark.