Blue blade is rusting now a bit.
You sheath the sword and it falls back
Against the wall beside the rack
Where staff, knife, spear collected wait.
Some nights you catch the whispered talk
Discussing when you’ll bring one down
And play until it lives again
Jumping to touch, a willful snake.
No secret who is rusty now.
But near the rack a window frames
The winter rain reeding, first
New buds unsheathed and bright as steel.
You touch a saber handle grip
And hear a voice you know, a book
You’ve read again, the quickened sense
Of thawing snow and dueling clouds.
TWM
Listen to: The Quickened Sense