The unstrung bow sits alone on the rack
The days are all gone of it riding a pack
Waiting so quiet to harvest some game
The owner so lovingly gave it a name
So many hunts it was taken along
The arrows were graceful and sang out there song
The years took there toll, with scratches and dent
So many adventures have all come and went
Now hung on the rack so silent and narrow
It hangs there alone with it's quiver and arrow
What's this, a new hand so young and so lean
Then down from the rack, just what could it mean
Then strung up and ready, four hands on it now
Old hands and young hands and a voice that said Wow
The arrow popped off couple times in the light
And then with excitement the arrow took flight
New stories beginning adventures untold
Adventures of hunting will never get old
By; Dale Kuder
:campfire:
:clapper: Enjoyed, thanks for posting.
Pine, it looks like your poem may have meaning at my house in the not too distant future. My grandson has begun to show a significant interest in the bow. Right know, I have him a youth bow (34# at 26"), but when he grows into an adult bow, some of my bows will be waiting.
Excellent :notworthy:
:campfire:
:clapper:
Very nice!
Very nice! :clapper: