Weathering II

I watched the sun
go down in the west
and you asked:  'how much rain'?
look:  the horizon line, I said
'too much this time'
you nod and turn, hand
on the rope - cast off or stay?
always a choice for the day,
planks beneath our feet
shifting in the waterway -
sturdy stern, proud bow,
our boat is weathered, strong,
'there is no distance that is 
wrong' I say 'near
or far' - the sun is hidden
during the day behind
a pall of cloud
and at night the bright stars.
Wind picks up, brief
smattering of rain heralds
storm.  We go down, batten
all our hatches, wait.
Overnight, the boat rocks,
reckless by the quay, bumps,
grinds, scores itself
on metal, wood, stone.  By
day the storm is done, it has
moved on.
	Birds are loud, water slaps
the hull, we decide to head
off into the quiet stretching
sparkle of the day - out toward
open water
and the next weather system
coming in:  our restless hearts
only know to move, always
begin.  Winter comes soon
and the cold will drop upon us
like a deluge from God -
snow and ice will come
and we will be forlorn, all
those miles away in the
arctic wastes, frozen-in
awaiting Spring
and the Northern Lights
will keep us warm.

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