The fisherman tells the sea
that he promises to weather its storms.
The sea tells the fisherman
that she promises to carry him
to adventurous lands
upon her leeward waves.
As for me,
I promise we will be okay
as the winds blow the shingles
off our tiny, little house.
I promise we will be okay
as we follow the maps
and navigate the roads
while the radio sings static,
our hands clasped together
at your knee.
I promise that the rain
will radiate diamonds,
that reflect the gleam of your eyes,
onto the shores,
into the sea,
onto me,
and especially onto you.
We will find hope inside the clouds.
Written, under a confident April moon, for E.