In the first summer, she exhaled her divine spark –
took it in her hands and fashioned it
into a golden arrow, gleaming and long.
Notching back her bow, she aimed it high,
arms quivering in effort from her deep draw,
fingers blistering as she loosed it into the night.
A ringing sound broke the silence as
it cut the air like a gold comet thrown
by the hands of god at the heart of the moon.
Free from spirit her body fell into shadows,
her listless eyes watched the sky, oblivious
as to what could, would happen next.
Her arrow of creation plunged into the moon,
a slow seep of golden glow overtook
the usual silvery light welling from the center.
Erupting in orange gold flames the moon
became molten, burning steadily,
until nothing more than a shower of glowing ashes.
The heavens blessed this shower as it fell to earth,
down through the sky onto the archer,
chasing away darkness and shadows.
She alone stood in the field under a moonless sky,
covered in the ash of moon and creation,
rediscovered, reborn, renewed.
The journey she began as woman, as arrow
as the moon shining down, culminated in the
exhalation, piercing the layers of who she was.
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2 comments:
I like this. Very well written.
Thanks :-)
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