Steel is not strong enough like steely nerves
until it is coiled and compressed and cured,
because to bounce back in life takes rigor.
You must rebound and restore, when trounced
to become a tight spring. The suppleness stays
squeezed in the slight space, reserved for the right
slot and spot. The strength shows in the perimeter
of action, not in the volume of the substance.
It’s the skill of storing and saving stamina. The strand
can draw into a trinket or a ring, a simple string—
still, an ornament, static, so plastic, so plain, so
different than the spring. To spring is to release right,
in full force. Surprises spring up, bright ideas
spring to mind abruptly like a stone escaping
the catapult. It’s all about timing— slightly slow
and the spring is a silly shred of steel. A crap
piece of scrap, not alive enough for survival.
Spring is supple, spring is sudden, spring
can be breath, in and out, can be a dancing
dream in the shape of nothing, of wings, woven
to fly. The still steel takes in torque, wakes, and takes
off, to the summit. Then slips back to the standstill.