2009-10-02, 07:21 PM
An Heirloom
An Heirloom
Encased in newspaper, entombed in a wall;
In a cradle, near a book, wreathed in web (to my appall),
Rest a relic restored to the face of present time.
Withdrawn from its sheath, I grasped a handle of uncertain bone.
The edge of the blade was worn dull from decades of dormancy.
Yet in the light peering through the crawlspace, the steel still shone.
A stain of rust-red seeped through layers of the creamy haft
And reached up and festered on the surface of the tang.
I brought the knife; the heirloom, as I imagined; to the sink
And washed away the unsightly stain as best I could.
Mixed with water, the color brightened as it fell to the drain.
This tool; this weapon, as I imagined; was one of hunter’s keep.
I assumed the blood to be stuff of elk.
My grandfather’s father was a hunter: I was taught this once.
His success was as apparent as the uncertainty that came to my mind.
Compared to the proud hunters of my blood, how did I fair?
As they looked down upon me, was I judged and to what fervor?
Have the swells in their hearts been of pride or of gall?
Have I slain the right faun? Should I slay none at all?
Shall I notch the trees tall? Shall I gather the leaves that fall?
Will I shine as brightly as they during my maker’s recall?
In the face of their judgment, I turn my head.
Not of shame, not of guilt, not of doubt, not of dread.
My every step will be in my honor; their will be damned.
My thoughts will ring truly. I’ll dismiss legacy.
I’ll fight my own battle; not for them, but for me.
Looking once more upon the blade, I saw the visage of my own
And smiled with it for awhile.
I encased it in newspaper, returned it behind the wall;
In the cradle, near a book of memories in my scrawl.
An Heirloom
Encased in newspaper, entombed in a wall;
In a cradle, near a book, wreathed in web (to my appall),
Rest a relic restored to the face of present time.
Withdrawn from its sheath, I grasped a handle of uncertain bone.
The edge of the blade was worn dull from decades of dormancy.
Yet in the light peering through the crawlspace, the steel still shone.
A stain of rust-red seeped through layers of the creamy haft
And reached up and festered on the surface of the tang.
I brought the knife; the heirloom, as I imagined; to the sink
And washed away the unsightly stain as best I could.
Mixed with water, the color brightened as it fell to the drain.
This tool; this weapon, as I imagined; was one of hunter’s keep.
I assumed the blood to be stuff of elk.
My grandfather’s father was a hunter: I was taught this once.
His success was as apparent as the uncertainty that came to my mind.
Compared to the proud hunters of my blood, how did I fair?
As they looked down upon me, was I judged and to what fervor?
Have the swells in their hearts been of pride or of gall?
Have I slain the right faun? Should I slay none at all?
Shall I notch the trees tall? Shall I gather the leaves that fall?
Will I shine as brightly as they during my maker’s recall?
In the face of their judgment, I turn my head.
Not of shame, not of guilt, not of doubt, not of dread.
My every step will be in my honor; their will be damned.
My thoughts will ring truly. I’ll dismiss legacy.
I’ll fight my own battle; not for them, but for me.
Looking once more upon the blade, I saw the visage of my own
And smiled with it for awhile.
I encased it in newspaper, returned it behind the wall;
In the cradle, near a book of memories in my scrawl.