Each stone uncovered, the gift of figures—
hundred and fifty, two hundred years ago,
foundation for creekside mill or barn,
or silo, sledded then rolled into place.
Buried by default of earth and rain again,
at this rebirth the stones are saying nothing.
Our deed search unearths “Gentry’s farm,”
but not before a neolithic knife,
one side made sharp for cutting, one dulled on
skin and bone, vaults before the tiller near
our home. We almost feel its warmth within
from fires struck by flint against some fear—
but no, the stone is cold, its life our own
to build with—before the rains begin again.