Sunday morning

the sun is bright and the wind steady,
out of the northeast,
as I watch the tri-mast schooner,
in full sail, crossing the harbor,
the cut of its jib,
like the Tip of the Spear,
like a proud young man
before his blushing virgin;
the gulls sleep,
as the flag flapping
stands erect over
the ants marching;
I watch her drive to the water's edge,
idling, palms sweating,
heart racing,
as she stifles a sob or two,
tears cascading down
powdered cheeks;
and then, resolve restored,
she guns the engine,
and sails into yesterday,
momentarily triumphant.




November 8, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.