Upon a canvas, round and gray,
A story etched in olden day,
Of bison strong and flowing mane,
And a proud chief who would remain.

​From minting press with brilliant gleam,
A five-cent piece, a hopeful dream,
It journeyed forth with purpose true,
Beneath a sky of endless blue.

​Through many hands, it made its way,
From light of sun to close of day,
In pockets deep and jars of glass,
A silent witness to what passed.

​Some were held for their great worth,
A precious treasure of the Earth,
With date and mint mark, clear and bright,
They shone with numismatic light.

​But others, worn by time's embrace,
Lost every feature of their face,
The date, the mark, the detail fine,
Faded from their grand design.

​A silent, smooth, and dateless form,
That weathered every passing storm,
No longer valued for its name,
Just for the worth of a simple game.

​For one was lost to darkest ground,
While others in a drawer were found,
A fleeting glimpse of what had been,
Before the fading wore them thin.

​Yet in the dark, a soul it keeps,
A history that never sleeps,
A gentle spirit, weathered, wise,
Reflected in a finder's eyes.

​So though its worth may not be grand,
It finds a home in gentle hand,
A rescued relic, shining bright,
No longer just a nickel, worn,
But a new beauty to be born.

​And now you hold it, safe from plight,
A cherished relic, shining bright,
A new found story to be told,
A piece of history you now hold.

​In the finder's heart, will ever remain,
The memory of the first time they proclaimed,
"I found it," "My first Buffalo Nickel!"
For if you are steadfast, seeking out this hidden treasure of our past,
Then may its favor shine on you, soon you will find a Buffalo nickel at last.

Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE"

​An ear that doubled, ninety-seven's prize,
A whispered echo for watchful eyes.
A lobe that split, a tiny clone,
A secret only few have known.
I held my breath and looked so near,
To find that treasure, quell the fear.
​And then the fields of wheat so fine,
That '22, a missing sign.
No "D" for Denver, smooth and plain,
A priceless loss, a numismatic gain.
You traveled far, a humble guest,
Putting my searching to the test.
​But now the rolls are nearly done,
Your copper journey's almost run.
No more the thrill, the hopeful gleam,
To find a treasure in the stream.
A pocket's weight, a wish's throw,
A piece of us, you have to go.
​The jar that filled with passing years,
Now holds my hopes and silent tears.
Each copper face, a memory sweet,
Of simple joys and tired feet.
From countless hunts, a truth I see,
You meant much more than one small "c"
​So fare thee well, dear copper friend,
Our treasured hunts must reach an end.
The loupe is dimmed, the light is low,
A gentle, sad, and quiet blow.
But in my heart, you'll always be,
A piece of humble history.
​Oh, thank you, thank you, endless nights of joy!
For every roll, a hopeful, eager boy!
For every find, a shout, a happy tear,
That banished doubt and vanquished every fear!
For calloused thumbs and eyes that strained to see,
You gave the greatest treasure back to me!
A universe within a copper sea,
An explosion of pure, unbridled, grateful glee!!

MICHAEL  POWERS
"STYXX ON FIRE "