I never meant to land in the water.
I’m no sailor, no navigator.
Tectonic forces have cast me adrift,
the land ran away from me,
islands on the horizon receding
faster than I could learn to turn a rudder.
I lay for ages in the cold doldrums, water
turned to lead, air to sulfur, I could not breathe –
until, gradual as the dawn, the arrival
of these misty storm birds,
who pull me forward until I am upright
and regain momentum,
moving toward the harbor I cannot see
but have faith is there beyond the swells.
Albatrosses, frigate birds, gulls?
I don’t know, or much care.
They are my wings, my strength, my sails,
this boat, the wind, the waves,
as am I, in turn, for them,
hoisting each other toward the sunrise.