An arrow can not alter its course once loosed.
Control is lost.
It soars onward to its target, or it falls short.
I lived in a quiver until I matured,
then I sailed the sky.
Guilty of dreaming,
of daring to live,
braving a voice against the wind,
I cut a swathe with razor words
forged by reason
and tempered by passion.
But I reached the arc of my curve
and the wind gusted.
My feathers were too few and I was but one;
no hail of brethren followed in my wake.
And then I knew there had never been a target.
What mattered was that I flew.
What matters is that I found you.
And now the rain falls to join your ocean,
and so, gladly, do I.
Copyright © 2018 Scott Kaelen
Read my other published poems here.