The bowstring taut, a whispered plea,
My aim, a novice, wild and free.
Each arrow flew a wayward flight,
A target missed, a fading light.

But practice honed my trembling hand,
A steady grip, across the land.
Each feathered shaft, a studied grace,
Found its mark with measured pace.

Now, with a sigh, a knowing smile,
My love, I'm weaving through the aisle
Of passion's dance, a tender touch,
My aim improved, so much, so much.

No longer lost, my heart's desire,
But finds its mark with tender fire.
The slow embrace, a perfect art,
My love, my world, a work of heart.

For practice makes the perfect art,
And love's own rhythm, plays a part.
Each tender moment, softly spun,
My aim improved, beneath the sun.

Tomaž Jevšenak