Maladjusted, swaggering on scaffolds,
A‑ self‑important in dust‑stained boots,
Snarling at apprentices,
Ornery as lime and grit,
Nonce of the guild,
yet loud as a foreman.
But stone remembers none of this: arches clasp, walls rise,
and even his crooked hand
leaves a habitation standing.
Sullen at the anvil,
Muttering curses with each strike, Inflated by sparks
as if they were applause,
Temper short
as the iron he quenches,
Half‑drunk on smoke and clangor.
Yet the forge sings
louder than pride:
horses are shod,
hinges swing,
and the hammer’s rhythm
outlasts the man who wields it.
Proud of his wheel,
Overbearing in critique,
Throwing more tantrums than bowls, Territorial about clay,
Easily cracked as his own glaze, Resting only when the kiln cools.
Still, the vessel survives him:
cups to hold water,
jars to keep grain,
a quiet utility shaped
from mud and fire.
Wary of others,
Egotist in pattern,
Arrogant about warp and weft,
Vexed by every knot,
Ever certain her loom is law,
Rigid as the frame she bends over.
Yet cloth is communal:
blankets warm strangers,
tapestries tell stories,
and threads, once crossed,
bind more than they divide.
Morose in the morning,
Insisting the grain owes him fealty,
Lording over sacks of wheat,
Laughing at peasants’ hunger,
Ever counting coin,
Resigned to dust in his lungs.
But the wheel turns regardless:
water drives stone,
stone grinds seed,
and bread rises in ovens
far from his bitterness.
.
.