Anvil

Crushed and broken - heating at times hotter than normal - the billows pumping - then the hammer down upon my flesh, upon heart steel - the sparks flying like little birds - the face of the blacksmith, true, determined and black as soot - the holy beating of this metal into something it does no know. This tempering, this shaping, this purging and purifying is all necessary to withstand the requirements of a life that is coming. I am in pain - the steel cries out with each shrill ring of his hammer - each thrust back into his glowing white oven— then more - beating, shaping, cooling, heating and on and on it goes until spent - set in oil to cure - release and be fashioned into the blade it was destined for. The anvil holds all the weeping sparks - is the bedrock of this transformation - trust its largess - cleave to its smooth surface - nothing his hidden here - and nothing can escape its bare, brutal clang. Alone and alive - can be the place to start, where in the womb you want to be - exposed now to the elements - rain - wind, the harsh places you can now withstand in the sheath and outside in the raw. This fashioning takes skill, practice - endurance. When all parts of me want to do is blame the blacksmith for his brutal behaviour - when all those bearing downs of love are resisted - I get soft - allow - say I surrender, I am undone - and done unto. This process of becoming something else than I was is not my design - I did not create it - I choose it now - but only as a choice less choice. I was chosen for my properties - the alchemy of the right mix in my veins - not because I was beautiful or sung out. I have a look - a patina that caught the makers eye - he wanted something that would stand the test of time - war - the ugliest of elements. And he chose me. Little steel, he chose me.