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The Morning Smith

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Morning stillness,​

a breath,

the world exhaling.

​

Barely peeking sun

gifts think light

to the grass

and peeping through

the windows

wakes

​

the Smith. 

He hauls himself 

from bed

​

a stained shirt

strains

over his bulging arms.

​

He steps heavy

to the forge,

stoking

yesterday's embers. 

​

Fumes 

of melting steel

and the crashing,

heavy hammer

shatters stillness.

​

The world breathes fire and smoke. 

​

​
 

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