What I used to think, I loved and used to know,
Serving a bowstring, this I used to know,
Fumbling with the tools, I never thought about,
Now stumbling to remember, I often doubt.
Pride in remembering what this is all about,
Fletching, cock feather, never a doubt,
Silence the string, of homemade wool,
Instinctive love never foils the fool.
Drawn and held, the second of truth,
What I remembered was, the hit, the proof,
Arrows fly, straight from the heart,
We are never so far from where we start.
Shafts often are lost, and we strive to find,
Paths seem to veer from course, yet to them we bind,
We never forget, the truth we know,
And return to all loves we have known, as we grow.