The Blade in the Garden

I found a blade beside the rose, its silver kissed by morning’s close; It caught the sun as if to keep the fire warm while earth still sleeps. It did not stir when I drew near, nor tremble with a hint of fear; It seemed to watch, in patient grace, the wind that touched its polished face. A vine had curled around its hilt, like memory round the things we’ve built; And rain had carved, in tiny streams, the stories only metal dreams. I reached to lift it from the ground, and heard a low, unshaken sound— The whisper steel will sometimes say: “My edge was honed for more than play.” Yet still it let my fingers hold, its weight both steady, warm, and cold; And in that moment, I could see the storm it was, the calm it’d be.