Words emerge unbidden from the past:
Harmartia - to miss the mark.
I lift my bow and notch the arrow
seeing the target just in front of me.
I pull the string, bend the curved bow
breathing until I am ready to release.
The arrow flies - the target disappears
and I, unsure of target or its mark,
question where it was my arrow flew.

I aim at what I do not understand.
Quiver, arrow, and bow defenseless
until the day I begin to fathom
where I am going and the mark
I am meant to see and hit.
Until then, I will practice the art of life
as if it were quiver, arrow, and bow.
I will shoot my arrows into the air
not knowing how they'll fly or where.

The practice is enough it seems -
empty quiver, lost arrows, dropped bow.
Perhaps my search for the target's mark
will be all my life was searching for
and a day will come when I may be
what will not flee from in front of me.
When then I raise the bow I'll breathe
and breathing will let arrow will fly
into the mark that had long eluded me.
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Portland, Oregon - August 18, 2022

Harmartia, from the Greek, essentially means, "to miss the mark or, to err." In literature it has come to mean the "fatal flaw" of a principle character leading to his/her downfall. I find these two interpretations a bit contradictory.  We all may miss the mark or make difficult and sometimes tragic mistakes. In another sense, our mistakes can lead us to make the changes needed to make our lives worthy of the gift of life.  

The green grass of spring
become flaxen yellow remnant
lining the drive and the stony paths.

I did not cut the grass as I have done
but let it be. It lived wild for a time
among weedy things and dandelions.

The dandelions flower still 
towering about the wilted grass.
Which are lovelier I cannot say.

Perhaps it means little to write
of dead grass and dandelions.
Yet here they are along the drive.
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Portland, Oregon - August 9, 2022

Mornings I sit, facing the wall
within silence but for birds.
It is a practice I observe
after rising to meet the day.

Before me, the wall in dull paint
yet it is my past and future I see
streaming by as if in a parade
until I breathe and see again the wall.

They've all gone before me
who've sat facing the wall -
Buddha, Jesus, Francis, Julian.
What did they see when in mornings they woke?
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Portland, Oregon - August 2, 2022