Every morning, with the sun

I rise and journey to the docks

just where the ships arrive

bearing goods for me.

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High-stash holds of boxes filled

with dazzled thoughts and softer light

or darker griefs and greys:

all the hours for me.

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Part-way glad and partway sad

I sit exhausted, midway through

just where my ship had come

and doubt the goods for me.

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And then some tiny, gilded box

hidden long, reveals—like grace.

my ship has truly come

and brought new life to me.

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So every morning I return

to mingle sighs with joys.

My ship will ever thus

bring death and life to me.

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But on the evening I look out,

across the aging, sun-splashed mirror—

longing for the homeward-ship

I know will come…for me.

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