To be the swift sword flaming
Hammered on the anvil of the soul
Red steel tempered to accept
A razor sharpening. I am
The Scribner of my tempering
Fusing words, particles forged
Into atoms of prophetic thought
Aligned, beat into shape, to guard
The way, whetted by the still voice
In waking, honed to separate
The chaff, that only those, who
Have rejoiced in refining, may pass.
c) Jan G. Otterstrom F.
October 13, 2008