The Tired Blacksmith
Just as a young man pines for his big break,
or a young stag for his next leap,
So I yearn for the moment when all that has been studied
and all preconceived ideas and creative moments catch,
let loose and settle,
And we find a return on our intellectual investments
where we bought into university and bible studies,
and the newly greased aged gears will begin to make there turns
in the industrious caverns of our minds,
in the delightful meadows of conversation,
in the plastic parapets of political coercion,
and maybe, given a little prayer and rest,
even in the unconscious aquarium of our dreams.
I want it to work. For step one to merge smoothly into two,
a seamless marination of adolescent cotton and weathered denim.
A melding of iron and steel.
To see a harvest of intellect.
To find an old key in a mason jar hidden in a house
and to slip it into my apron pocket for no one to see.
To travel swiftly home, to gaze at the opener in candle light.
To wonder what it opens.
And to view all found truths as this key.
Just to look at one person and love them.
To look at the throng and love them the same.
Oh the hope I see in every inch of humanity,
Would you not just reveal to us, Sweet Hope,
the sallow, tired face of yours.
And so maybe now I don't want the break or the leap,
just for the cogs to turn, and I to see a return on things labored for,
for the brazen metals to cool, for the tool to get use,
that the country may flourish, beauty be upheld and sought after,
and for us men to work at a steady pace and die.