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A Garden ArcherMy murmurs are a recurved bow. My verse is an Arrow, errant in argence. The darkness is my target, and flight is my sole aim. Arcane, in starlit artifice, I have sown wistfulness in the gathered gloom. Plangent, I have planted my plaintive Range by the waning of the moon. Morose, I muse in amaranthine, why the garden grows so green in reverie and everdream, keening beneath the seeding sky. All our flower beds are made. The groundcovers are trimmed, embroidered with a downy brocade. In nocturne A moon-rain falls with soft cascade. In eventide sidereal curtains wave to a disconcerting woodwind serenade. Her roses glimmer in crimson ephemera. Dimly nestled amid violets and lilacs we must restlessly lie in a vari-colored lullaby. Confined and chained by predestination... So far foregone, my fate is drawn in the constellations. Coruscating a darkling Artemis mesmerizes Orion. As a fragile Sagittarius inherits the horizon. As I draw my thoughts, my bow is strung, with threnody, as yet unsung. My shafts of epitaph caress and question the breeze. With nightwings, my bow sings, owl-feathered elegies. Moon-limned in argent Zen I am a Garden Archer. Sun unrequited... Sunflower petals sun-settle with a twilight sigh, as the darkness closes starry-eyes. The bow cries my arrow flies, like willows-the-whispering, glistening, flickering in quicksilvered woe. So fleet, my grief wings between the rows and behind the transparent silence. In rue my Muse makes Arrows of the Mind. I aim them with hindsight and Zen lament. In lucent despair I loose errant sorrows... A poet's prayers are naught but grace cast astray flying with Blind Faith that the words will find, their way. My murmurs are a recursive bow. My verse is an Arrow, errant in argence. The darkness is my target, and flight is my soul aim. Every garden is my Range. Every blossom draws my pain... And paints her joy. Copyright Luke Michael Owens - May 22, 2003 Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades - Vote for this poem -
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