The Arrow

With the twang of the bow an arrow takes flight

it pierces the sky as it soars out of sight

strong oaken shaft with a razor sharp tip

golden feathers to guide it on its mysterious trip

Through clouds it presses onward climbing higher and higher

 over land over sea spewing a trail of Greek fire

far below its shadow can be seen as it passes

green valleys, deep rivers and low lying morasses

Twenty days and twenty nights it remains true to its course

many miles has it traveled with a true moral force

many have seen it pass by on its path through the grey skies

all wondering and wondering of its final demise

In an instant it slows and begins its decent

as if all energy behind it has finally been spent

it spirals downward and downward its shining tip all aglow

Its destination it appears a high desert plateau

On the sand in the desert a single Indian stands guard

looking upward from land that has been pitifully scarred  

he watches for something… no one is sure what

his hands shade his eyes that seem never to shut

The arrow slices downward gathering speed and more speed

the Indian watches hopefully next to a patch of scorpion weed

the arrow strikes the earth and disappears neath its dry crust

sand and rocks spewing upward in a mountain of dust

Minutes pass and all is quiet until the earth starts to groan

and then a gusher of water to the heavens is thrown

the arid desert turns fertile and crops begin to grow

the Indian dances and chants giving thanks to he who bestows

An ancient ritual? Perhaps, but only the spirit really knows

©Copyright 2009 Charlie Gragg