One day you may drift into darkness (on a small ship on the sea’s slick surface): a poem

I’ve become hesitant to post poems I’m writing, having gained some awareness that once something is published online it’s not generally publishable anywhere else. But writing a lot of things and not sharing any of them makes me feel a little like a bird with clipped wings. I have a lot of questions about what I might want to do next, but also want to keep putting things out into the universe believing more will come. Or maybe I’m just extremely impatient.

I’m heading off on a short backpacking trip with two dear friends early tomorrow morning, and as I get ready I’m thinking about darkness.

I will tell my children:

one day you may drift into

darkness, on a small ship

on the sea’s slick surface, the

moon’s reflected light reflecting

faint hope on the rolling waves.

Don’t fear this starkness,

the lonely vigil,

the shadows cast upon you and

against you, strange fish lapping

at your ship’s sides,

the roaring silence, your soul’s

uncertain state of repair.

You are alone here;

you will always be alone

in your quietest self, in your

night-time wanderings,

beneath the huge sky’s awning,

no more here than in a crowd.

There is no safer harbour, there is no

certainty of life unfolding as you wish it,

as you believed had been granted,

had been gifted.

But you are alive now, luminous watcher,

buoyed by this silent cradle,

high up on the slippery waves,

rocking,

rocking.

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