ot a cozy place to dwell for a while,
but I hold the blacksmith’s shed so dear
and would anchor my boat to its sultry harbour.
On his mini stool, the dwarf blacksmith sits.
And I watch as his sinewy hands
make his bellow blow.
I enjoy the thrill of the flaming forge
and the heat billowing from the smith’s furnace.
He puts a piece of metal into the furnace
until it is red hot with heat.
He hammers them into arcs and curls
and other shapes he desires them to be.
He is far from being cruel to the metal
as his intention is benign to the core.
His hammering generates unique metal melody
that soothes the pain of the bleeding metal.
He plunges it into a basin of cold water
with intent to temper it for good.
I watch his craft of heating,
beating and tempering
until the desired shape is achieved.
Does the metal ordeal
not related to
in our everyday lives?
I mean how circumstances
place us in life’s furnace
whether we like it or not
and hammer us as they desire.
And in every hammering by fate,
there is a degree of perfection gained.