Her prow was as proud as the day she was christened -- a
passage or more ago.
A few nicks and scars where she’d forged her and I through
a torrent or two, to show. I’ve mine own to show from such times as well.
Her elegant lines founded her taut rigging. A sight
never lost to a seafarer’s eyes. She called to them as she did to me.
A song set to a maritime
score.
Her whispered invite I’d not ignore.
I never owned her. I piloted her, steered her, mended
her and navigated her throughout the world -- and my life. All told, I was hers and only with grace allowed to offer a hand to her truest desires.
Her sails were boundless,
clean and white.
They billowed from her deck toward the morning light.
Though now, like me, she's worn from quests and plights.
Still has a sail, though, she’d
meet with might.
She knew the sea. It was her home -- where she was born.
There she was never alone.
One day she'd disappear
on the far side of a cresting swell.
In her wake, a legacy:
A man,
A friend,
a boy, forever with her tale to tell.
