Irons in the Fire

They rest there on the coals, sleeping dogs, bright red in the evening light. I put them in a while ago, hoping that I might someday extract the glowing harvest and pound them into the tools and shapes I will need for the rest of my journey. The one sending out subtle sparks as it breathes the heat of the embers is grief. That one sits in me like a ticking time bomb. It burns brightest at dawn when the possibility of a new day fans it into a near molten state, flowing lava. The one next to it ticks perceptibly. That one is joy. Without that one, nothing I do will be worth the powder to blow it to hell. I have to retrieve my gloves, the thick, leather ones given to me by my father, the ones he got from his father. And the goggles. Those are new. One has to bring his own style, after all. I will wear purple socks too. The anvil and hammer are waiting for the work to come. It has taken a lifetime to get to this point. I have made many mistakes and wasted too much time, but the moment is now, the place here, the words tempered, waiting only for all the craft, passion, and love I can bring to their birth.