Blacksmith Shop

I like the bellows operated by rope.

A hand or foot pedal – I don’t remember which.

But that blowing, and the blazing of the fire!

And a piece of iron on the fire, held there by tongs,

Red, softened for the anvil,

Beaten with a hammer, bent into a horseshoe,

Thrown into a bucked of water, sizzle, steam.


And horses hitched to be shod,

Tossing their manes; and in the grass by the river

Plowshares, sledge runners, harrows waiting for repair


At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor,

Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds.

I stare and stare.  It seems I was called for this:

To glorify things just because they are.


Czeslaw Milosz


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