Archery
Submitted by stars of cassiopeia on Tue, 02/24/2009 - 16:09.
Archery
When my hand grasps that string
It’s no longer a bale of hay I’m shooting at.
The arrow’s a comet,
Shooting across the sky
Until it lands.
My hands are frozen there
In its icy trail of a tail
Nodding, it’s a good shot.
The next arrow loads, and I look out unto
A forest, sunlight scattered through the leaves
In sun spots on the grass.
Dew coats the place where my feet are, uncovered
Thundering of horses hooves
On the paths around me, defending the homelands.
As I pick up the next arrow, the ground becomes clouds
Spirits waft until we’re in a line
Firing beams of light to awaken the people below.
And when I gather my arrows
I turn around and see
There’s always a new target.
Take aim and fire.
(If you notice, the poem takes the shape of an arrowhead. This was completely unintentional, but was something I noticed after the piece had been composed.)