Shield of Bronze

These days of punished generosity
are only thunder clouds, dwarfs in the sky,
who sling darts to answer kind intention,
but soon scattered by the wind who bore them.
If you are to suffer for mercy's sake
cling to my chest. I hold my shield skyward.
Imagine the drum of arrows on bronze,
the marching cadence of my beating heart.
Errant missiles skirt our shadow and nip
ankles like yelping dogs too small to note.
Let arrows pepper my shield, if the weight
should rend my shoulder, I have the other