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Into
The
Bay
Sometimes
I
feel
like
coaxing
my
little
peeling-
paint,
wind-worn,
time-smoothed
rowboat
over
the
sharp,
broken,
fossilled
limestone,
the
dry,
wave-braided,
seaweed,
the
defunct
zebra
mussels,
and
clam
shells
into
a
stiff,
off-shore
breeze
and
discovering
where
the
wind
will
take
me
with
it's
utter
indifference
to
my
cause
of
the
month,
my
mood
of
the
day
or
my
disposition
of
the
moment
only
dipping
the
occasional
oar
into
the
rippling
water
to
persuade
to
port
or
starboard
and
the
ease
with
which
the
shore
and
the
cozy
cottage
fade
into
the
distance
seems
to
whisper
don't
think
about
returning
home
just
now
...
there's
time
aplenty
for
homecomings
...
I'm
not
so
easily
dissuaded
I
am
my
own
occasional
oar
knowing
I
can't
change
the
wind
but
sure
that
I
can
lightly
steer
the
boat
of
my
time
here
in
that
wind
ere
the
zephyr
fades
and
the
sun
bows
down
to
paint
the
darkening
horizon
GDL
2005
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