Maritime
I will not hold still. I will not stay. I will visit perhaps, but I will always be leaving. My bow will cleave the water, my flag will unroll and roll up many times as I depart ceaselessly and my sails will routinely be graced by the wind.
My hands will repair my home and my hull and many a tale will be engraved into the wood of the hull by my sister, the sea. I will pass those like me on my tack toward a distant marine edge that drifts from me in a supportive, knowing way. They will all understand, fellow sailors who pass. Stationary I shall never be, even when at anchor.
This is what she says to me and I to her as I look with adoration at her earned rust, her prized collection of scrapes and barnacles and salt stains. She calls me, just patch a few holes and come with me, wayfarer, she says, for I know the great blue realm.
She stares back through a single smudged portal of glass at my monocular lens. Together we would even have two eyes, she says, bargaining, don't you want to go, young man?
As I gaze through the time-worn photo atop my desk, through all the many photos of my friends, these boats of the high seas, I remember the resonance of her voice as she whispered beckoningly to me those many years ago when I captured her forever.
