Changing of the Tide
In the morning, the harbor is quiet.
Boats wait for the tide.
Birds hover languidly over the docks.
Everything waits for the turning,
the moment when the waters pull us back to the sea,
back to the adventure of empty horizons
as far as you can see,
for the fear and exhilaration that live
not in opposition, but as food for each other,
a symbiotic thing,
each weaker alone.
Together they are the difference
between mere life and living.
You have made this journey before
and each foray into the unknown has been unique,
and so far survivable.
You have come home with tales and scars
and a modicum of wisdom,
but not enough it seems, to prevent your launching out once again
at the changing of the tide.
About this poem.
Simply a story of my life.
The picture was taken near Newport, Rhode Island.