Cold Steel

Five forty and the porch boards hold the cold I set the stone flat, press it to the rail Draw the blade across the wet grit, slow The edge finds nothing in the dark but scale My fingers won't close right — I hold them straight And press the steel against the stone again The sound is all there is, that low scrape Like a match drawn down a strip of tin Draw the blade and turn the stone Draw the blade and turn the stone The edge gets ready on its own Breath comes out like something I could touch It disappears before it clears the rail I don't look up — there's nothing out there much Just the barn shape and the fence gone stale The steel warms where I've held it near the tang I test the edge against my thumb, not quite One more pass — the grit bites and I hang On that last drag till the angle's right Draw the blade and turn the stone Draw the blade and turn the stone The edge gets ready on its own Lit the stove before I came outside The flue ticks as the metal finds the heat Out here the only warm thing is the pull Of steel on stone, and that's enough to keep Draw the blade and turn the stone Draw the blade and turn the stone The edge gets ready on its own I fold the rag around the blade And the dark is just the dark again