A Note to the Village Blacksmith
Village blacksmith
how can I know you
without a name?
How can I explain to you the way I quiver
thinking of you
under that grand chestnut tree
your large sinewy hands
your brawny muscular arms
your tan face and long, black hair?
And then the quiet revelation that your
dear wife has died.
You, sitting there
among your boys in church
the tear in your eye
as your daughter sings.
Give me a name, please
for it is me you’re looking for
under the spreading chestnut tree
It’s me who can make you love again.
So far away in time
and place am I
in love with
the village blacksmith.
