Poem: Adrift



The tide tugs. The rope pulls loose
and you are adrift.

The waters are quiet, at least for now,
and there is peace in the not knowing
where the currents will take you.

Once this would not have been the case.
your fear of the unknown was palpable,
a thing to be challenged, to be captured
and turned to your will,

but no longer.

For all your bluster and strength
the storms have had their way with you again and again,
ripped your sails, and cast you on the rocks,
breaking your craft and your soul into splinters
and left you for dead,
all your struggle for naught.

And so you are done.
There is no fight left in you,
no desire to brawl before the storms even arise.
You are willing
to be.

To drift.
To soak in the peace and the sun
and revel in them both,
until the moment the next storm emerges,
knowing you will survive that one,
and the next,
but you will no longer let your fear
ruin the peace.

You reach down.
Your hand feels the river’s surface,
feels the current’s gentle pull.
Eastward it pulls you.
Towards the horizon.
Towards the sun.

About this poem. 

No idea where this came from. It just came. It works that way sometimes.

The picture was taken near Provincetown, on the tip of Cape Cod.



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