Poem: Cutting Water

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Cutting Water

When you were a child, you always sat at the bow,
at the very front where every wave was first cut,
where water and wakes splashed the highest,
sure that this spot, here at the very place
steel or wood or fiberglass sliced the seas
was the most dangerous and were determined
to be brave, even if, in reality, you were not.

It set the stage for your life, or so your mother prognosticated,
a tendency to leap into deep waters,
learning to swim
on the third time down, sometimes well,
sometimes poorly enough to drown,
sure somehow you would rise again.

Based on what proof, you cannot now imagine,
for there was none in your reach. No floating bodies
of the foolhardy. No, you were the first, and yet
amazingly, despite yourself, you were right.

About this poem.

From time to time, when readers read of my darkest periods of depression, they ask me if I ever considered suicide. I have to admit I did not. Somehow, I believed, life would work out, evidence to the contrary.

The picture is from the port in Provincetown, MA.

Tom

PS: I am offering something new, because people have asked if they could buy my photographs. I will now be offering any of the images that I use here as prints through Fine Art America. You will be able to get them in a variety of sizes and finishes.

I don’t plan to put every photograph I use here on Fine Art America, but if there is one you want, let me know. I will post it there for you to purchase.

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