I have walked amid the forest,
leaves low brushing by the face,
and I have reached to offer them to you.
Night has watched me with her wounded dew
hunting hopeful by the grand old roots.
There I have found the thorn
and willed to pierced the flesh,
giving gladly to the drop, life,
that you might live my love.
Lie down and rest your troubled head.
I cannot sleep, but rest in knowing that you do.
Your quiet joy is soft like violets
nestled in the green,
or child fingers over cheeks.
Yet at a sound from under garland wood,
with strengthened quiver full,
you bend the bow.
We call you Arinjay and it seems right:
may no fear seize your golden arrow’s arch,
for bowman in the house of God you are,
and He shall steady up your hand.
You rise from kings, who, under spritely charge,
defied old basilisk with their winged arrows armed.
They marched to silver clarion blasts
and so shall you,
when you have rested, take your aim.
I pray that naught may tread your shadow down
or weight your eyes away from off mountain top,
where comes your help.
You are lovely, my bowman, and I am content
to watch you from corridors of time and space.
I waved to you just now
as you turned to take your stately leave,
and last night I said goodbye.
It is enough to love you silent in my heart,
to see the light of glory in your eyes.
Sleep well sweet love, my bowman-archer-knight.
This heart has found its rest in loving you;
my thoughts are hushed now, as a gentle fawn.
Tomorrow I shall stand, slowly swaying to my feet.
Shall stand, growing strong and rich
with watchful prayer and tender womanhood.
Then I shall step from sackcloth into light.
Sleep well, my bowman, with eternal joy
for blessed you are, and blessed shall ever be.
May Heaven kiss you with her starry skies
and lead you firmly by the hand to victory.
Recipe for Emma: 1 part humor, 2 parts poetry, 1 part music and a dash of art, stir continuously until sarcasm is the right consistency, serve with coffee.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy