A Boy and His Slingshot

Upon waking, his heart cries to me.

Oh how treasures of the heart are worn on the sleeve.

His greatest joy in wondering what today will hold,

as desire narrows his vision; moreso than gold.

It’s the thrill of the hunt that propels him from bed.

A pouch of requests to be wisely made.

Each shot promises to hit the mark at it’s head, 

Some destined to simply arrive de-layed.

Off to the forest he solemnly declares

that no forks of attention will distract or snare 

him. For no one thing be as worthy of morning

as seeking after his treasure, of hearts adoring.

He kneels in preparation, his mark long past the swaying trees;

A stone's throw from the clouds above. 

Eyes closed, he pulls back, launching his petitions into the breeze,

The heavens rejoice, and the hosts thereof.

A day ends with an empty pouch that once held ammo,

It was a day of great hunt and reward, though.

Thus he leaves the forest with no tangible prize,

his treasure remains in heaven, in which it will always reside.