I am ready to be a feather in the wild wind.
I am ready to be a leaf, drifting face down
in a swift creek.
I am ready to be the climbed tree
and the fractured rock—
to be the sailboat in a storm—
because I’m so damn tired of being the captain.
So tired of the sea quest
that’s taken the morning of my life—
I’ve sailed to the edge of the world
and looked over,
and what I saw staring back
was terrible and fierce and utterly
beautiful.
I felt the line slacken in my glove.
I felt the tiller drift from my knee,
even as the storm turned me back
and drove me home
and yanked at my keel—
and he shrieked so loud
his thunder split the jib,
and I really thought I was done for,
that I had made a mistake in going so far,
in facing that fire at the edge of the world,
in asking and asking
and never being all right.
And all the time, the storm raging:
“You’ll never make it home!
Correct the stern or be dashed and lost!”
Oh, how booming that fool can bluster!
But I can bluster too,
and I can sing shanties
as my keel tips to the moon.
Bluster at the tiller-man!
Bluster at the captain and rage!
I will sail, and I will wreck,
or I will berth at home once more—
and I can sing shanties.
What a revelation!
