The Golden Arrow
Injured,
Barely able to move or think.
I spend my days and nights
Walking through summer fields,
The yellows and blues
And dabs of other colors
Everywhere, everywhere,
Filling me,
Making me whole,
Bringing me to the
Beautiful, Radiant Soul.
The Soul’s Light everywhere,
Everywhere
In the fields and skies
In every blade of straw
Or flower or herb
In every scent.
I am filled,
Complete.