Good ideas and conversation. No ads, no tracking. Login or Take a Tour!
Iron, cold to the touch
cold to its very bones
and yet, when held to flame
burns hot, and stays hot
Whatever direction pulled upon
it holds fast to the deep,
resolute in continence
in that cold, briny well A heart of Oak
to temper my heart of clay
as yet unkilned, unmoulded, unshaped
with cool, calm Iron to hold me fast.