Honed

Across the years we

had gotten comfortable,

perhaps a bit rusty, yet

still useful for small tasks

that might need a 

little bit of pruning.

But then   He    came

with a scythe so blue-black sharp 

that just to look at it

was to feel the slice.

Bending toward my love,

He cut life from death

with hardly a movement

and took His harvest home.

I found myself alone

with just the sound

of scraping, as my

comfortable life

was rubbed raw

against an oiled stone.

Now I am a new tool,

my edge burnished

smooth and glittering.

No longer safe in the

hand because pain has

made me deadly.