The Open Boat

On a silken sea of flotsam and jetsam
I sit, surveying the restless waves:
The sea breathes easily
In late morning sun.
From overhead a gull descends,
Circles my head thrice,
Peruses the debris,
And moves on.

Languidly I lie
Across the thwarts of this
Weathered wooden boat,
Baked by the heat of
The climbing yellow sun.

Waves rise, waves fall;
Like a curious kitten
The ever-restless sea bats
The beaten boat about,
This boat that surges and sucks
In a sea of flotsam and jetsam.

An anchor might do;
Still, far from shore
The water is deep,
A sturdy dock now of no use.
Here, in the realm of open sea,
Amidst flotsam and jetsam,
Only the boat and I remain,
Cast adrift, awaiting redemption.

2012 © Brian T. Maurer

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