I’m always chasing after the guy with the bow.

Why he quite fascinates me, I don’t know.

Possibly his cherub cheeks and rosy glow,

or his touching mastery of the golden arrow.

He darts away, and I willingly run behind

until I’m almost driven out of my mind.

What he carries is so extraordinarily fine

that I wish he were my particular Valentine.

But unfortunately, that may never be.

He seems ever and always estranged from me.

As far as a root from the leaf of a tree,

albeit connected, too far apart to see.

He has indeed such an indulgent cachet

that rather than having him once make my day,

I would blanket him in sunbeam and moon ray

until, replete and content, he decided to stay.

Psyche may have had him in the Achacan past.

Still up on Mount Olympus, she ruminates aghast.

But I have found where his quiver is cached

and drawn out his pledge that I will be his last.

The love of a god is a righteous chore,

with the ins and outs all steeped in love.

Cupid is taken. Surely there are many more.

Find your own. Isn’t that what this day is for?

Carol Anderson

Valentine’s Day 2010