Don’t aim too straight but don’t throw fancy either;
just spit for luck and trust the flash of sun
to warm the blade before it hits the dirt.
You’d know the antler-handle in your sleep
as you know its lightning shape in air: that glint
of sickle so much sharper having slipped
your grasp — and landing better, always,
knee-tossed, pitched from heel. But none of that
until there’s thaw enough to hold your point:
you want to see it stick, then come out clean.
Miss the circle and a knife’s no gift
but in this season hoops won’t do nor marbles;
in spring the force that binds all blistered hands
invites you: come stand and draw your blade.