NaPoWriMo 4-9-2014

I remember hauling enormous
burlap sacks brimming with iron
each night
up indefatigable hills
to impossible clearings,
or down
to shores of hidden, kettle-held lakes.

And an anvil;

Coal;

And hours,
sometimes days
carved
from the abundant fat of my youth.

I'd cultivate fire
and sling slag first into it
then out, and up upon the anvil,
and hammer great piles of
letters and leavings from it -
the beginnings
of names, each night,
of never named
things.

And all of it seeming so easy.