Running into the wind's harsh face with taut string in hand, your heart soars into the bright and timeless blue sky. The bare limbs lay in wait, a snare for airborne hopes, passing the time until the month becomes gentled in April's soft baptism. The sails, all curves And quiet effectiveness, Bend to their work With silent grace. Taut fabric molded by Firm pressures not seen By sailor's eyes, are felt Inside where the wind Sings in clear high notes. Canvas cut-outs, etched in Stillness against blue sky, Move across the shoreline.
Silent shadows fly.
Ancient wings beat to Ancient rimes caught By sailor's ears, are felt Inside where the wind Is never at rest. A miraculous web of fibers, a sailors sinews sewn together with ancient skills in touch with all my journeys. This is my strong white wing caressing me in quiet hours when storms are wispy memories and soft air is all my craft has to hold to in tidal streams as smoky dreams take on the flavor of drifting days without cares intruding where strangers have no place to hide The Price of Spring April green shines like gold, the value of spring, tendered In the living buds, expands into small universes, once infinitely small, now larger than all the spenders of time, coveting the season's treasures. Rhode River, Maryland. Sailing Off the Hook Morning light trembles in the Curve of the mainsail.