Wednesday, April 10, 2019

Grindstone


Grindstone

My job, to turn the hand forged
handle in the direction opposite the one
that felt right to me, feet planted
in the cool lee of the low smoke
house, rough lap boards weathered
black, shedding ages of charred notes  
against a soaring score of distant
blue chords, hands on the crank
I bend to the work of falling
beguiled to an endless ribbon of road
born slick and wet from a new moon
trough of threadbare tire as she silvers
the black grin of the blade,
low murmur of wary hens lost
in the lull of steel on stone.    

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