You feel the wind stirring.
After a long still season, it stirs,
at first uncertainly, the direction shifting
from west to south, from east to north
and back again.
The sails flutter, tied up too long on shore,
while you worked, mended nets,
replaced frayed ropes with new,
healed from the scurvy of your times,
sistered broken ribs along the waterlines.
The sea has become restless.
Wind has that effect. Change has that effect.
Your ship is not yet fully repaired,
but it too is restless on the waves
and you know it is time
to lower the sails and lift the anchor,
trusting the winds, your rudder,
and the strength left in your arms
far more than the destination or seas.
A fresh wind is blowing.
It is time.
About this poem.
Personal. National. A fresh wind is blowing.