Her hands are small but strong.
They grasp the hammer's handle.
Dawn to dusk she weaves her song
with the bellows and the anvil.
Sparks fly 'round her coiled locks
and her eyes reflect the fire.
Her lovely skin hides the chiseled rocks
of her muscles spun like wires.
Some men look for fame and gold
to steer them to their bliss,
but these are all too frail and cold
for one who felt her loving kiss.
1 comment:
This seems familiar... Have you published this previously?
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