Blacksmithery / Alx Johns

The ax's head now
half submerged
and making its home
in earth and moss,

he's long forgotten
the felling
or needing the fire

that one imagined would
melt a spearhead,
its place a waste
of space now.

Then, though, back when

a dark shaft above
a pair of round wooden wheels
would shout a solid ball, a better,
a man made stone out into
a rock wall.

The sleek, smaller cannons
for each man,
are buried now in
Iwo Jima's volcanic sand.

A silver cylinder
of melted metals,
that primordial, essential glowing
flowing stuff
poured, pounded to its purpose
married to others
by fire
and capped
with a capsule,
a domicile

rose into the sky
and beyond

as fire itself forged fire,
a rocket
went into
outer space,

fragile enough to
lift the staring head from one another
with an iron tool
actually fire
skulls to the moon and
stand in the ash grey
dust and rock

and look back now
on the little earth circle,
the land one color
the sea another,
and all else
ineffably black.

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