Dark weathered patina
belies the strength
of iron wrought
to battle stone.
With weight and heft
of Roman broadsword,
the honed tip slams
down into blinding
white limestone.
And the stone yields.
In shards that burst
upward,
luminous moths
that sting and die.
Again and again.
Iron versus stone,
ringing out across
the hill country.
Til blisters and blood
draw the day
down to evening,
and the hole,
ever so slightly deeper,
reflects a last fragment
of moonglow.