Anvil

I remember the anvil

unrung for years

a monolith of iron

its silver sheen glistening

from the hammer’s

glancing blows

I remember the ragged

window screens

letting in butterflies

patchworks

of orange and blue

they knew not

where they were

or why the house stood

And already it was time

to leave summer

season of sticky skies

and uncut grasses

season of woods

and waters

season of no seasons

And already it is time

to return in winter

season of icy rooms

and quilted nights

season of driving south

on two-lane roads

cutting through

blue mountains

I’ll Fly Away

on the radio

The anvil rings out

from nowhere

and everywhere

unmuffled

by its sawdust bed

unruffled

by its rough-hewn loft

pitched high above me

A dusty sheen

pushes its way

into cobwebbed

shadows

my uncle’s

work gloves

on the anvil

a disarray

of leather

dirt and tears

And already it is time

for mourning

broken hands

and unseen dreams

this season

of no seasons

about to depart