The wind

For some time, now, I’ve sat becalmed at sea,

Rocked by tiny ripples from who-knows-where.

No matter; tiny ripples are naught to me.

The sea might as well be glass.  Unmoved, I stare

Out straight ahead at the pale-washed line of blue

That signifies a place to be, hints of

A destination, somewhere a harbor new.  

But the storm is over; the winds thereof

Have blown themselves out and left me floating here.

I just read a book today.  The hero,

Who faces demons and evil and death and near

Dies himself, gets his peace in the end.  Though

            Who’s to say he doesn’t now and then feel

            He’s lost his wind and, with it, something real.

Empty Boat Color Study IX by N Poucher