A Captain Adrift

After many years at sea

mapping the currents

and the stars

and reading omens in the

migrations of seaweed, divining

by any means

the expected alignment

of bow

and keel

and rudder,

the perfected attitude of

sail to wind,

eye to horizon,

where treasure calls,

ever correcting the course,

impaling every fearsome beast

on the compass point

of my will…

After dreaming myself Captain,

master of charts,

merchant of destiny,

I recently awoke

to discover

I am merely

driftwood,

drifting,

adrift,

perhaps the remains

of a crate that once

carried spyglasses to

Napoleon’s lieutenants,

or a broken oxbow

swept down the Ganges

along with a peasant’s

last hope.

I am driftwood

with no destination but to

be present each evening,

witness to the Evening Star,

I am driftwood,

as gloriously buoyant

and full of sun

as any Spanish Galleon

that ever sailed, and

infinitely more free

to go with God

up and down

a while longer

until one last storm

plunges me into the

quiet deep,

or tosses me again

onto a far shore,

to break upon flint

and throw firelight

across the breathless

kisses of lovers

dreaming themselves

Captains of their fate.