The Water’s Edge

 

Sitting on the sand

is the white, wooden hope,

in hull and mast,

held in that dry dock cradle

upon a land stretching as strip

connecting to the shore,

while serving as haven for sailor’s dreams,

of those mariners trapped in neighborhood moorings,

holding onto their frail visions of vessel escape.

 

Riding the cerulean seas in their minds,

spirit swaying to imaginary tides,

picture of that sailboat framed

and hung on the wall,

sometimes driving out to sit inside

and feel the wind brush across the face,

remembering the vow to finally slide the craft

into that water and toss aside every care,

leaving behind worries constantly nipping

at your thoughts like barking junk yard dog.

 

Visions come while holding onto that steering wheel,

mentally plotting a course to some exotic isle,

inhaling the salt air with eyes closed,

soon the head clears of its distractions.

 

In the distance noticing another boat

heading out to the ocean,

making that resolution to next year

to be the one plotting a course to paradise.

 

Trying to exhale the memory

over making the same promise last year,

but holding onto the tidal fantasy

that eventually some wave would wash away

all the anchors of life

keeping the heart landlocked.