Anvil

Bolted to the bench

in the Old Man's workshop,

the anvil seemed to have

a bow and a stern--a ship

of steel that would never see

water. A rock of ages

on which to pound things,

will things into shape. Always

cold to the touch, like a snowdrift,

even in high summer. It had jaws

and teeth to hold things if need be,

but never ate. It was

indestructible and passive

like the blue bedrock over which

impulsive rivers ran. While tools

broke, rusted, disappeared; 

while nuts and bolts came

and went; and jobs and tasks

were asked and answered,

the anvil stayed like an anchored

asteroid, like a god of patience. 

Hans Ostrom 2024