Pulled along by a riptide of dreams
no sails of reason, oars of explanation
can change her course.
The Northeast wind, dark,
heavy and smelling of storms
keeps her offshore.
Lines taught, canvas snapping with effort
she tacks and tacks again
hoping to keep the course
she imagines she sets,
sketched on her blank charts
by memory, history, poetry.
But the sea is indifferent
to struggle, aspiration and intent.
Only through its toss and thunder
- the siren song of creatures
from its immeasurable depths -
the patterns sun, moon, stars and wind
print on its surface -
can its unthinkable truth be guessed.
Wind, water, and the bright hand
of her will upon the wheel
keep her course, until,
the hiss of water under the bow,
the pop and crack of tackle and sail,
her eyes close.
Then seadreams lap her ankles,
carry her on their swell,
float her soft hair in a graceful fan,
and deliver her with a sigh
to a new land
long prophesied by
the compass of her heart.