be held within the arms, lingering,
goddesses wrestled with the bowstring,
a brocade of hopeful darts,
closed to shielded hearts.
string attached to the arrow
grainy, wooden, hardness, sanded narrow.
pull this heart string, and make it quiver,
reflective arrow to deliver.
from side to side, and back once more,
the mark, opening the door.
archer, slowly, took a faultless aim:
A move, a sound, a thoughtful arrow came.
~~~ by Michael Chaussee