Though waiting to be shot
As if from a bow at history
Old men know the fleeting path of arrows
And how many miss their mark
Advising only to appreciate the arc
And the view from there,
With the harried battle far below.
Arrows that
land, impotent in furrows
Or twisted
to the back of a horse’s knee
Taking down
no kings nor plunder
Had a least
their moment there
Between
release and fall
To imagine a softening enemy
That they
may retire in.
Arrows
cannot choose their bow,
It takes a
helpful archer to know
The wind,
the field and in the letting go
The adamantine
nature of the foe.
