Poetry
Short Story
1 min
The Swordsmith
Gabriel B. Toupin
Twelve bars of metal,
Resting on a rack,
Ranging in colors,
From silver to black.
A fire ignites,
Blazing orange and red,
Devouring logs,
And twigs long dead.
Its hazy warmth,
Quickly grows,
Warming the kiln,
And my icy nose.
Into the heat,
I cast a steel bar,
It turns red hot,
As I watch from afar.
Then reaching for tongs,
I save it from death,
And rush to the anvil,
Holding my breath.
With a clang and bang,
I hammer a form,
Sparks pass my face,
Still glowing and warm.
As I keep on banging,
It vibrates my hand,
With a power so strong,
It shakes the sand.
The steel then sharpens,
As it flattens and smooths,
I twist out a handle,
And chisel the grooves.
Then I hold up my work,
And examine the blade,
I find not a flaw,
In the sword I have made.
1st place winner of the 2024 DTDL Short Story & Poetry Contest. Teen age group, poetry.
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