Whetstone

The whetstone rough in my hand has a satisfying weight,

a heaviness born of gravity: this rock is important,

has work to do, something to accomplish,

something larger than holding earth in place

or falling into a pond, lake, or stream

with a satisfying plunk and splash,

nor shall it be a counterweight

used by a coyote

to launch an anvil, no,

this stone was born to hone,

made to sharpen blades,

the gritty scrape of rock on steel

removing flaws, eradicating

dullness. Given patience and a steady hand,

a rhythmn will be found, a steady

cadence of perfection-seeking

with the sword. It shall be refined

to a razor edge extending from hilt

to tip, becoming, as my father would say,

so sharp you won't even feel it cut you.