Taught
I am the archer, with bow-string grip and squinting eye ere each arrow’s slip from coiled cord, racing toward, another target’s central pip
and with each hit I notch anew fletch and shaft, and pull sinew to strike again another plan from my endless-red-ring’d field of view.
With breath held tight to focus in on aim and tension and cross-wind, ceaseless shots at ceaseless naughts with check-mark rings for each day spent
that find rest only in the dark when duskfall curtains my next mark and I uncoil from my toil and slowly rest my calming heart.