I live with iron, lead, and steel in the house you built for me, in the country. A rusty door keeps the wind out; it creaks, but it's not often I need hear it. Inside, resting by the window, I listen to the rain sing pitter-patter on a tin roof, and ask aloud; "What will grow, anyways? It could rain for days and dry soil would stay so." A few weeds once speckled the front yard, but they withered when you left; not from thirst, but because they needed you. Specks of silver could be found in your footsteps, and a light spinning at your center radiated warmth on chillier nights. Still, you were but the kindling for my forge.