Every morning, with the sun

I rise and journey to the docks

just where the ships arrive

bearing goods for me.

High-stash holds of boxes filled

with dazzled thoughts and softer light

or darker griefs and greys:

all the hours for me.

Part-way glad and partway sad

I sit exhausted, midway through

just where my ship had come

and doubt the goods for me.

And then some tiny, gilded box

hidden long, reveals—like grace.

my ship has truly come

and brought new life to me.

So every morning I return

to mingle sighs with joys.

My ship will ever thus

bring death and life to me.

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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