selfsmith

A
Tap
To tip
Our point—

              A
            Blow
          To
        Blend
      Our
    Grade—

    We all are water-hardened
And, by many ingots, fire-weighed.

Hot-anviled is our growth,
    And for half of it we’d beg be pardoned:

From the forge into chalice
      Or oft-wicked, woeful blade;

      For brandy or betraying battle,
We are molten-made—

  In time, perhaps, for both,
If not one for the other—

Too soon before
    The embers
        That
      Would
       Make
         Us
            More
                Have
              Greyed.

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    Poetry: Horizons
        https://windstrewn.com/2018/08/27/horizons/