I've hammered and hammered and hammered some more
and pounded my anvil right into the floor
then purchased another so I could renew
my arduous efforts to fashion for you
a keepsake with each bang
but all I hear is a hollow clang.
By carefully mixing some mirth and some song
an alloy of sorts could become quite strong
if tempo is tempered with diligent care
protecting the edge from unlimited wear--
with no such luck to date
I'm at the forge till late.
Are You Reading Me?
2 comments:
Sometimes you need to whittle instead.
Already tapped that metaphor, trying to find the poem so I can link to it but I'm finally getting to the point of having too much to sift through. Thanks a lot for taking time to comment Donna.
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