Be An Arrow

Be an arrow floating back to the bow,

breath returning to the archer.

Whatever you inflicted in your enemy's flesh,

wash with your tears

until the wound mysteriously closes

like the bones in a baby's crown.

But keep it soft.

That's the door we leave by.

Like peonies unbursting,

we spiral inward toward the bud.

Only in appearance do we escape
the seed. When creatures repose

in themselves again, that is the healing.
This poem is an echo of the cry

of a stricken breast already whole.
Beads of gratitude fall from these eyes,

pearl worlds on a thread of silence.
I keep whispering, "Grace, grace..."