Ten's Teeny Poetrees!

[For Adna]

My heater is broke
and the crazy witch lady
stole my hot water bottle

so now I dither in the pale
awkward light of the screen
untangling sentences
deleting strings of letters like they never existed

while night creeps in through
the cracks in the window
shadows wait to take my mind
and sleep- that fickle mistress-

lures the cold and aching bones
to the bed where she promises
the sweetest things

and when finally I lay my head to rest
she fades
like a breath in the wind
and I'm left in the darkness
while todays creeping insecurities

start to prickle at my mind

My father was a sword maker.
Between the heavy clangs I watched him
lift the iron hammer high into the air-
like a god amidst the smoke-
and bring it crashing down
on his fickle toys.

'These children of mine will never taste blood'
he said, dunking the blade
into the cold water.
He drew another out from the vat
and ran his fingers along the edge of the warm blade.

Once he made a quill with a tip of steel
that he called his finest sword.
I adored how gentle his heavy hands
could become, and the silver tip
that left trails of smooth, black letters
along the tired parchment, addressed
to men of steel and men of power.

They didn't save him from the call of war.

My brothers fell to in his stead
with the groan and heave
till I could almost swear I saw the shadow
of my father standing there.

To them he left his legacy
and to me, the quill
and his final words;

'All blades are meant for war
whether or not we wish them to be.'