Poetry
Blacksmith of Morning
A poem about making a usable day from the metal of a difficult night.
R
Richard Nkwenti
1 min read
Morning finds me at the anvil
with the night still red in my hands.
I have brought what would not sleep:
the unfinished argument,
the invoice,
the old face at the window of memory.
Nothing here is gold.
Still, I raise the hammer.
One honest blow for water.
One for the open curtain.
One for the body
returning to its name.
The day does not emerge perfect.
It cools crooked on the table,
useful enough to carry,
bright along one edge.
By noon I have made no sword,
no crown,
no legend.
Only a small iron key
and the courage
to try the door.
