Metal Memory

The sound of the hammer reverberates in the small room,
slow, steady, strong.
Each beat a shock to metal stripped of it’s pride
by heat and fire.
then battered by the blacksmith’s patient force.

It is slow work. Repetitive. Hard.
The metal resists, but in the end surrenders
to heat and power, and then
is shocked again, plunged deep into water,

teased into thinking it is finished,
that this wet drowning has restored it’s strength,
when in reality, it is only a preparation
for more fire.

And, when the blacksmith is done,
when the black iron is reborn and useful,
it’s raw beauty finished,
there is strength, without pride,

knowing nothing is permanent,
and the fire always awaits.

About this poem. 

How much change can a heart take? More than we think. That is not to say it is easy. It’s damned hard. But the heart is both tender, and amazingly resilient.

Tom