Thankful for safe harbor.
Packing the bags with hope.
Anchor lines whisper on the gunnels.
Sail hems mended to almost blend in.
Slap of chop echoes in the belly of the keel.
Port masters will only glance as a fresh shave.
Storm clouds on the horizon are beckoning wind.
Coats of paint baked to a cure in the hot sun.
Tying the tiller to sleep on the deck.
Forecasts of bathing in a bucket.
He thought I was land sick.
Eyes wide with knowing it.
As truth in a blue sky.
Letting go in clouds.
A lamp-lit bow.