The Grindstone
The grindstone spun as fiery flashes sprayed,
for even iron broke against his force,
and by his edge the blunt became the blade
a king would wield while on his charging horse.
The stone was proud to be of use to kings,
since by his work the grindstone was defined,
and loved the hum that rock on metal sings.
Above all else, the grindstone loved the grind.
The water on the wheel—the showered praise
of sweaty blacksmiths toiling at the treadle.
They found no equal zeal in all their days,
and so, they fed him steady meals of metal.
Although his grit could sharpen swords of steel,
there was a force still stronger than the stone,
and to this power all the greats must kneel—
the grind of time that humbles rock and bone.
His decades spent in shaping pointed spears
made edges dull and grit became effaced;
he failed to fettle even pruning shears,
and thus, he was retired and replaced.
This grindstone that had fashioned kingly swords
was left out in the yard—a flowerpot.
The years eroded all he laboured for,
and all that he achieved, the kings forgot.
But he recalled the sparks and heard the hum
upon his mighty edges spun to sharpen.
He thought before it all went black and numb:
we each become a stone amid the garden.
Michael Pietrack
If you have any thoughts about this
poem, Michael
Pietrack would like to hear them.
