THE BLACKSMITH

 

The blacksmith who lived just down our street

pounds on his anvil, tap, tap, tap…. repeat.

And then with hot and fiery steel

He shapes it with an earnest zeal.

 

From summer morn, and all day long,

I hear the tempo of his song.

And from the music that I hear

a work of art will soon appear.

 

Repair a shovel, build a gate.

Shoes to aid a horse’s gait.

A trailer hitch, a kitchen knife.

Most oft the necessities of life.

 

Hot and smoky was his shop.

His work goes on, he does not stop.

The forge is stoked, the bellows blow,

The flames fly skyward from below.

 

Glowing ingots soon will be

shaped and formed for all to see

into a fancy wrought iron gate

or a sturdy fire grate.

 

Molten steel will soon become

treasured objects, one by one.

Passed on to those who do not know,

of the blacksmith’s forge aglow.

 

R.D. Bruss (Brave Bear)

10/22