Keepsake, poem by Frederick Wilbur (MY PRIZED POSSESSION Poetry and Prose Series)

Silver Birch Press

by Frederick Wilbur

for Robert Leonard Wilbur (1915-1998)

It rolled in his pocket until its polish
betrayed its origin. To most anyone
it is just an oval whitish stone—
not an egg exactly, not a skipper,
but who knows, a chip of Grecian marble
found pleading on an ancient battlefield,
or some chance chunk of mountain,
that stream-tumbled, could not sneak
by the souveniring of bankside lovers?

And to suppose the story, is to corrupt
his fondest memory perhaps, to slander
that kind man’s lasting bequest. I dare not
take on the burdens of his life, but keep it
in unchallenged belief for my own sake.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: “Where I found it.”

wilbur1NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Great men are humbled by small wonders. Art, indeed life, takes on meaning in the seemingly insignificant, in imperfection, in those things which we daily pass over. The stone described in this…

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