by Dante Bortolotti

i am a lone archer
i belong to nothing, and nothing belongs to me
for ages, it has only been me, this bow,
and a handful of finely crafted arrows

winter begins to kiss the evergreen pine needles
and snow falls like ashes over the hills
while frost bites my skin with wolves’ fangs
and still, my hand never leaves that curved wooden bow

i shoot an arrow into the mist just to watch it fly
i wonder where it sticks ground
i wonder if i could fly too
if circumstances had been different

is my name still in someone’s mind
or has time erased me
and swallowed my memory completely?
it doesn’t matter; i’ll never know anyway

but i know i’ll never miss a mark.
as an arrow rips through open air
my name is only the sound it makes
and the target it splits