Blades sing to me in a language of angles. Anvil pruners, simple edge
90 degrees to a flat plate, ratchet-cut tends to crush. Today they taste roses.
Noon calls for hedge pruners with the graceful scalloped
blades.
I press the sharpening stone like a small
gravity,
circling my arm, wrist locked. My hand is a moon in orbit
in a low angle to squeeze weaponry onto twin lips
of steel.
Later I take up a small honest sickle to battle
blackberries.
I have honed it well – I test the razor with a
finger
and am cut so easily I hardly feel it. My blood sanctifies my efforts.
My pocketknife that I found grumps with
resentment. I have left it dull
too long.
It reminds me that I can’t change circumstances,
but I can
alter the angle of my life to them,
sharpen my blades, prune out the unnecessary.
My favorite sharpness: A massive antique scythe.
It is made to move through, to level.
It sings a primal music, Sheshh! Sheshh!
with each swing. On the backstroke I bow to its
power and purpose,
making way, never sorry for doing so. It has mown miles,
the ripe barley, the gold sheen on the wheat.
What needs to be edited or excised in your life?
Pick up some smooth-voiced shears or artful
Japanese saw.
Note the angle of how it speaks. Polish the edge well and begin.
J. Pratt-Walter 5/26/2020
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