Axe the shapeless thoughts from the mind-corners,
hold them in your hand,
at first only shards of metal scattered and clouded with dirt.
Heat the thought-ore in the forge,
Fold the molten words over again and again,
Hammer them into shape on the anvil,
Sparks flying in the dark of night
Like stars above
Or fireflies below.
The molten phrases plunge into cold water
and a rush of steam hisses upward.
Then there is the scrape of metal on stone as the edge is sharpened,
and gleaming steel words, thick and sure and razor-teethed, rest in your hands.
Or maybe not a cutting sword-phrase today.
Perhaps instead make hinges and a cast iron handle,
for opening a door and stepping out.
reblogged from Life and to the Full
featured image from MFG Talk Radio
Read-Write-Etc 