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Archery
I'm ready to paint. Desire's returned at last.
It seems its either famine or feast.
Right now is the time for me to break the fast
And whip off one more painting, at least.
Of course, once I start, the words will all dry up
Or so they usually seem to do
But as my aim is always for quite high up
I'll just hope twin arrows will shoot true.
For the canvas is my target, as you thought.
The paint brush is its precise arrow.
The other target is paper - empty, taut
The pen is its missile - small, narrow.
It will be a feather in my archer's cap
If for once I can hit both bull's eyes.
Lighting will flash and thunder give a great clap
And I will bow in grateful surprise.
