That last line: You may never even know what hit you. That’s exactly it. There’s something so unapologetically precise about the way you draw the bow here. Not to harm, not to parade—just… to land. Delayed, deliberate, unmistakable.
I grinned through “engraved with your initials.” That part carries a knowing I’ve felt in my bones more than once. You’ve distilled what so many of us carry in silence until it shapes into language with its own gravity. Not vengeance—just truth, finally given a form.
Thank you for letting your arrows fly like this. I felt the lift of it.
Yes. Some never notice the imprint they leave—and still we carry it until it dissolves or transforms. I don’t always fly above, and I don’t always move on with grace. Sometimes I hover in that slow ferment, knowing it won’t serve me, yet needing to stay until the weight shifts on its own.
You said it—easier said than done. And still, we do it. Not because we owe them peace, only because we owe ourselves release.
Glad to be in this sky with you—wingbeats uneven, arrows precise.
Thanks for your support, Francesca, and for writing a poem that says it better than I ever could. ❤️
Just got blindsided
Those haikus used to be “fun”
Going back to rhymes
Im not feeling very haikuish at the moment moment 😂! Good one, though. Fly high!! 😂🤗🤗🤗
Francesca—
That last line: You may never even know what hit you. That’s exactly it. There’s something so unapologetically precise about the way you draw the bow here. Not to harm, not to parade—just… to land. Delayed, deliberate, unmistakable.
I grinned through “engraved with your initials.” That part carries a knowing I’ve felt in my bones more than once. You’ve distilled what so many of us carry in silence until it shapes into language with its own gravity. Not vengeance—just truth, finally given a form.
Thank you for letting your arrows fly like this. I felt the lift of it.
Many remain clueless, so we move on. Or try to fly above. Pointless to slowly ferment.sometimes easier said than done though of course 🙏🤗❤️❤️❤️
Francesca—
Yes. Some never notice the imprint they leave—and still we carry it until it dissolves or transforms. I don’t always fly above, and I don’t always move on with grace. Sometimes I hover in that slow ferment, knowing it won’t serve me, yet needing to stay until the weight shifts on its own.
You said it—easier said than done. And still, we do it. Not because we owe them peace, only because we owe ourselves release.
Glad to be in this sky with you—wingbeats uneven, arrows precise.
Oooooo, nice. I feel that one :)
So catty! Maybe that’s why Jews have a prayer
Blessed art thou, Lord our God, King of the universe that I was not born a woman