In the cool damp of the evening fog,
the far shore lies obscured from view.
All is stillness;
even the gulls have settled in,
their harsh competitive cries
muffled in the gloom.
Water laps quietly at the pilings beneath my feet;
the sharp profile of your boat
is softened to a mere suggestion:
there could be movement,
someday --
Hard to imagine, now,
sails billowing in a rush of wind --
but the promise of motion nestles there,
tucked up inside the keel,
befriending that deep center
that will keep us on course in the storms to come.
* * *
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