Cold Hammering
by Salty Vixen
Take this native lump of self
Hold it, squinting, to the light
Note with instinctive artisan’s eye
Promise; yet still not shaped quite right
No blue orange bellows flame to heat
No white-hot malleable bend of steel, no tongs holding
No easy work to do
This is the cold-hammering
Arm-strength, sweat splattered, pounding again
Facets and edges to be made smooth
Slowly into round shapes free of pain
It will be done with tools of long ago
In cold daylight, hard recollection
Initials of fathers burned crude and faded into wooden handles
Not only for myself I work
Hammering these places hidden deep
For my new love and for our peace
For sweet release,
and nights of sleep.
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