framed by light, the lines
graved in his face a studied relief, a
map of all that has been, a hint
of what may be yet
as he (so noisily) hammers out
a new piece of art and
the crickets sing in counterpoint,
our summer chorus
his ranging limbs forming the metal
into the shape he wills, forcing the
detritus of last night's battle into
the shining baby, knife sharpened,
sprung from the slick grey coils ever
tightening and relaxing, directing those
messy digits to sift through the
dross for gleaming gold,
the path lit by fireflies blinking out
their morse code
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