The Modern-Day Bladesmith

She smells of smoke and steel

Of salty sweat

And used motor oil burned by the quenching of a scorching blade

She inhales the heat

And the metal dust from the anvil

And the sawdust from the sandpaper used on the handles

She exhales dust and breathes patience back in again.

Her hands are black,

Except for the burns from flying embers and the blisters from swinging the hammer

Unsurprisingly,

Cleanliness vanishes at the door to this forge.

She loves it.