Silver Clasp

I hate to think
what made the mud
I wash off in the stream.
Finger bones in silted bank
that tell of centuries
spent drowning.
A hand that clutched
a keepsake or
some ordinary thing.
Beneath the layered time-
stripped flesh and tarnish
shines a goddess moon.
My thumbs trace knot-work
circles of her hair
around a triple face.
She binds the light
in cold metal craft
of mortal men.
I break all laws
of treasure trove and grave
to steal such magic home.
A brooch to pin a cloak
I cannot wear
for fear of her silver clasp.