lilies of the valley

Coals pop; bits crackle when the morning fog rolls in
and you tug on that golden thread once more.
Past the thicket and back through the marsh,
across the prairies you planted and the trails you cleared,
the slack is drawn in, your first knot tightens and thrums a response,
right over your hollow and across your bow,
a deep resonating bass echoes in your chamber and amplifies unnumbered times.
When your lungs fly out of you like an owlet trying for wind
and you still can't find the way to draw enough into them
and your belly is heavy with anticipation,
know that there is nothing you can anticipate.
You need only stand tall,
twist among the birch and keep the arrow steady;
be with it in it's moment of flight,
splicing atoms, hurtling through the void.
Live in that moment and push at it from all sides,
expanding it continuously.