I Was A Blacksmith
Something I've carried into the new year
Written in early December, posted Jan. 13th
I pondered my life and the ones before it. I easily assumed I was a florist. I could have even been an astronomer. I am fascinated by the beauty of the world and the skies so few have ventured into. I want the world around me to be a kaleidoscope of color and softness.
I realized that I was a blacksmith. My hands ache from the metals I've mined from the dirt and shaped in scorching furnaces. Despite this strain and toll on my body, I brandish tools and inlay delicate swirls along the sharpest edge.
I was cursed to be burdened with heavy responsibilities. I fought battles alone and taught myself to forge things that fit my purposes. I've made art instead of war, and swing my mallet with intent. Despite this, birds still take seeds from my hand.
I am proud of my kindness and craft. I am proud to be strong and gentle. I am proud that despite the solitude and loss, I am richer in love than I could ever hope for.
I make swords for all who need them and recycle the metals of ones I no longer carry. The price: warm smiles and loyal company.