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The Bronze Huntress

fine, faintly flickering face, 
  a goddess'  gilded grimace,
    eyes slightly squinting, 

      razor-sharp concentrating,
        lips pursed and puckered, 
          arm straining straight, steady,

            pushing away at the sturdy 
              bow that bends in, arched;


with deft fingers firmly 
  pinching,  lithely guiding
    the arrow's feather past 

      her cheek near the ear,
        she pulls hard, stretches 
          taut the bare bowstring,

            impatient, anticipating, she 
              flushes with an aching thrill,


itching  for a primal burst 
  of some pent-up emotion;
    but with the prey out there, 

      freely feeding on freedom still,
        her destiny, indeed, at her 
          sculptor's whiffling whims,

            is to forever take a careful aim, 
              but never to make the final kill !

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