The blade licks the whetstone
Dry
The blade sings
Memories
Of when it was rock.
The whetstone sings
Harmonies
Of when it was rain
Drumming,
Making puddles dance
When dinosaurs were distant dreams.
The harvest awaits
Under a boneless sky
Shivering in the warm air.
The blade now lies
Sharpened, ready
For tomorrow is its day.
The cooling breeze
Passes by
It cuts the sky to ribbons.