The Rosehead Nail

“But can you forge a nail?” the blond boy asks,

And the blacksmith shoves a length of  iron rod

Deep in the coal fire cherished by the bellows

Until it glows volcanic. He was a god

Before anachronism, before the tasks

That had been craft were jobbed out to machine.

By dint of   hammer-song he makes his keen,

Raw point, and crowns utility with rose:

Quincunx of facets petaling its head.

The breeze-made-visible sidewinds. The boy’s

Blonde mother shifts and coughs. Once Work was wed

To Loveliness — sweat-faced, swarthy from soot, he

Reminds us with the old saw he employs

(And doesn’t miss a beat): “Smoke follows beauty.”