Arrows

Arrows

Arrows from bright, unbroken skies
are falling down into the eyes
of a man who is searching, yearning to find
fantastical vistas inside his mind.

The warming rays illuminate for him
branching paths from which to choose again–
one that's been taken, one yet to be tread,
both bursting with wonders inside of his head.

This time his inspiration can be found
in gentle giants rooted deep in the ground;
how they sway and creak and seem to speak
to all those venturing outside to seek
a piece of peace amidst their stoic presence
or words of wisdom in their silent essence.

For some small creatures, they can be a stage
on which to sing or dance or at times engage
with the birds and the bees in a compilation,
played in a theater with living foundations.

More wonders walk under that green ceiling
seeking cover to avoid revealing
themselves to anything from the world outside,
wary of the dangers when worlds collide.

These are the stewards of this grand old hall
where, when no one’s watching, silent things fall
to the ground, decay, and become the soil
that all things need and in which men toil.

Yet these men who venture out to work and play
within this world–this great green bouquet–
struggle to stop for and much less to smell
the wonders, like roses, wherever they dwell;
wonders like giants growing so tall and so green
that they create, in morning sun, a scene
of arrows from bright, unbroken skies,
falling down into my eyes.