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Your somewhat wooden, early Victorian
Prose reminds me of the times we sailed out
From Mt. Sinai Harbor to the Thimble
Islands, tacking across the Sound as the wind
Bore against our course from the northeast.
Forcing us to swing from land to sight of land
You would shout "Ready about! Hard a' lee!"
We ducked as the boom raked over our heads,
And the boat keeled into the new course.
You're not here to pilot now, or set anchor.
Each night you'd go about and test the lines
Securing us inside your wooden home.
Now we're each adrift in the tide of our lives.
I must watch the stars and go on alone.
9:42 AM 4/6/2003