Collection, Recollection

Can the arrow forget the bow-string
and the bow, their pent-up passion
to let fly, the sudden snap and twang,
the relief of release?

The fledgling, having just
chipped herself free into the nest,
how does she practice
the wide threat of space?

A clear lens, the drop of rain
carries in its orb an image of the sky
from which it fell—a piece of cloud—and
with it a recollection of thunder.

And the predestined satchel
of tomorrow, how can it not be packed
with the finely-orchestrated
chaos of today?

~Luci Shaw