Mariner’s Report


I still struggle not to sink
Down to docile death.
The music of the minutes
Fills my spinnaker
For direction and for hope.
The seas ahead look rough,
Yet, I plow on.
Each day’s tack out and back
Makes my course along a plot
That strokes my appetite for mystery.
The El Dorados long have vanished from my charts.
I am satisfied to feel the winds,
Sense the seas, watch the waves
Rock the unattainable horizon,
Gyrate the constellations of the night.



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