Eric Schiabor fineartamerica.com
Out on the water
a white trawler slowly
crawls to the north-east
Her booms tied straight up
against her stack like masts
On her glistening deck
an old fish-hand sorts
new coils of rope
No ship passes
but I pause to wonder
Where do you come from?
and Wherefore are you headed?
All washed-down and slicked-up
like a child bound for church
bright ribbons streaming
from her hair
Will you through
the channels to the sea?
Northward toward the rivers
the innumerable streams running so wild
where even now bright fingerlings tumble
downstream in a wintry rush
to seek their destiny
in the dark deep
Out on the water
a white trawler slowly
crawls to the north-east
Old feet tangled in thick brambles
can’t answer the young heart’s call
A heart which long ago
took the long leap
to a white deck
Poet's Corner 