tiger and bowstring

He tenses his muscles and turns his body into a longbow,
a bowstring woven of music and playful prancing
– then instead of an arrow a tiger flies forth
(and the tiger is carved from the lithe heartwood still beating one-TWO-three-pause)

He is a tiger sleeping in a library,
in semi-sleeptalk dutifully teaching little birds to hunt for words,
while longing for the moment to escape the grey walls with the jungle-green bow he keeps hidden under his chair
(and only at night he hunts words and songs for his own enjoyment, one-TWO-three-pounce)

He builds himself a seaside castle from tiger-striped driftwood,
barefoot he fights emerald waves and throws sand dollar shaped pebbles into tidal pool wishing wells,
in hazy summer-lands alive with the whirring energy of a bowstring sending arrows flying into battle
(and in the shade of a bottle gourd planting he turns salt-water soaked book pages, one-TWO-three-breathe)

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