I Have The Bow

I have the bow in my hands,  instrument ancient and honorable,
supple and strong, no fiberglass this but wood, rare and fine, chosen
for how it both bends and resists the bending that’s imposed on it.

I’d like to notch the arrow of words and let it fly, following
its point, swift as any bird, through the acquiescing air, making
of its flight a statement that has energy and therefore influence

A certain aimlessness inhibits me, one that I’ve come to know
only too well, without knowing very much of its origins in me
I come up against it often and the arrow of words stays flightless

I have had so many aims that I have no aims, pass the days 
entranced by habits of my own making, am stunned by the beauty
of the forest, the glory of the light, how soft my losing is.

The arrow of words is feathered with a million thoughts,
more thoughts than there are or have been kinds of  birds
The arrow of words  can not bear the fact of being flightless

The lack of a target, the lack of an aim, opens the door
to the silent places of contemplation,  from which a report
is difficult…I caress the wood of the bow, find the lost tree

I

1983