The boulder seems
Cold to the touch.
The calluses on my fingers
Scratch at the rock.
Slowly the tools
Come into my hands.
Piece by piece
My hammer chips and chinks.
Blisters break open
And the rock
Turns to steel.
Hot metal, fired
In the oven,
Sparks to life
With each
Strike of my hammer.
Heavy tools feel light
In my hands.
The metal cools
The blade begins
To shimmer.
And then melt.
Like ice on a hot day,
The steel drips
Deep burgundy
Gently, slowly
Into the chalice
In my hands.
The elegant golden cup
Vessels the fine wine
Into my mouth.
But it is only stagnant water
In a cup made of stone.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
The boulder seems
Cold to the touch.
The calluses on my fingers
Scratch at the rock.
Slowly the tools
Come into my hands.
Piece by piece
My hammer chips and chinks.
Blisters break open
And the rock
Turns to steel.
Hot metal, fired
In the oven,
Sparks to life
With each
Strike of my hammer.
Heavy tools feel light
In my hands.
The metal cools
The blade begins
To shimmer.
And then melt.
Like ice on a hot day,
The steel drips
Deep burgundy
Gently, slowly
Into the chalice
In my hands.
The elegant golden cup
Vessels the fine wine
Into my mouth.
But it is only stagnant water
In a cup made of stone.
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