I bear an anvil upon my shoulders
One that has rung with the din of many hammers
Many times
And which has been warmed by bright fires nearby
And which has been used to bend strange metals into
Stranger shapes
Guessed at and implied in other works
But never realized until someone decided to fill the hole
And though the anvil does little work now
Perhaps a filigree now and again
Harmless and unhelpful decoration for a shelf that once strained under
The burden of too much knowledge in too small a field
I am loathe to lay it down
Where another's hammer might find it
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