Forge

a fluid mosaic

slapped onto a rusted iron anvil,

hammered down upon with increasing ferocity,

but it does not bend,

it does not splash,

it does not so much as move.

I try to make sense of it all,

of the reasons why I’ve done what I’ve done,

seeking some sort of underlying logic,

a noble, mysterious truth,

or perhaps just counterfactual justifications

overlapping simpler explanations,

a steel rod

that spends no time in the forge

cannot be manipulated by the blacksmith;

perhaps it is the same with any craft,

with even us artists,

who need time for pressure to build

before we can have a say

in the how and when of our creativity’s release

Creation

that I might have the audacity to dream again,

something a man said about the audacity of hope

still echoes in my head,

something that the people embraced

but didn’t run too far with

perhaps it was just a seed

cast into the wind,

to land on either fertile soil

or solid rock,

a fate up to the currents of the air

that I might again give form to the formless,

mold from thoughts

something that can be heard, seen, felt,

even if when cast into the wind

it ends up being a pebble

flung into the ocean

at least I’d make a ripple,

at least I’d move matter,

at least I’d do something that could not otherwise

have been done

that I might find the will to create

again