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
