I know a smith of peerless skill,
Who can craft all desires.
Her tools are not so crude as steel,
Or wood and coal and fire.
She does not swing a hammer,
No tongs replace her grip.
She holds on with her own two hands,
Strikes with her fingertips.
Down on a lightning anvil,
She lays works made of light.
The sparks from her bright heart's forge,
Form stars to fill the night.
The slag cools into mountains,
And with great patience she
Will beat a blade from color
And quench it in the sea.
Then, when the work has cooled,
She grinds what she has wrought
To hone an edge so quick and keen
That it can carve a thought.
Folk will come to see the art,
From close and far afield.
Some will find the blades too sharp
For them to ever wield.
Some will take the edges up,
See grace where others faltered.
W'chever way folk touch a blade,
They are forever altered.
You may ask which child of craft,
Which piece the smith loves most.
What blade she made, what star she raised,
Which ocean, hill, or coast.
She'll smile and shrug her shoulders,
Say, "Ask when I am through,"
Then ring her lightning anvil,
And light the forge anew.
Coming up next: A long delayed picture for my friend caffeinewabbit, and another picture I owe electricgecko. Plus other random oddments.