The ever-moving, ever changing wildness of the water
Soothes my sorrowful soul in ways that nothing else can match.
I don’t need to be on it, I simply need to see and smell it
To keep me ever-mindful that nothing living remains the same.
The trees in the forest whisper and swish, also ever moving;
But not with the seething, soaring sounds of surf upon the shore.
I feel like I’m caught in a lullaby trying to quiet my quest for better,
Especially in the dead of winter when our wooded world turns to gray.
Winter weather on the water is not the same as summer storms,
That roll in, touch down, destroy much, and then they’re gone.
But the winter’s gray sky becomes one with the rippling water,
And the low light glints rainbows on the air around the land.
I love and desperately long for living on the water;
Happily taking my chances on being washed out to sea.
I’d be more comfortable braving the height of a hurricane
Than suffocating slowly in the bosom of Mother Earth.
People who have spent their childhoods on a rural route
Seem quite content with waiting for nature to run her course.
When one is mostly defined as a woman at war with the world,
It’s difficult, at sixty, to become a woman who waits.