TIME


She is huntress, attaching,
in the early hours, sleek sandals
to fleet and nubile feet, filling
her youthful quiver with clutches
of sharpened arrows to stalk
the plenty of life’s game.

Midday finds her skinning, jointing
and salting, salivating over spoils
of her latest tender kill.

Sated at eventide, she has
merely strength to fire her
sole remaining feathers into
cloudless moonlit skies,

seeking to be laid to rest
wherever they may land
on her final earthbound flight.

Time, she is captor, holding
past to future skewered
in her gloved and velvet fist.