shoot
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His hands are calloused and torn,
browned by the sun as always but
now they are stained red with blood
Silent, he grips
the butt of his rifle with one hand
and a dirty cloth with the other
I pick it up
And turn it over
It balances perfectly in my hand
No chips
No dents
It's ready to use
My feet on the line
My arrows in the quiver
Ready to shoot
I sowed seeds with love and hope
Scattered them on earth
Giving them lots of space
And warmth by burying it in soil
Nurtured it with manure and water
Sunlight and air will help me I was sure
