My boat is my vessel,
with poets flag
blowing in the wind.

The open sea
my playground,
where words
gracefully move
on wavelets ready to ride.

Fish gather
with eyes like periods.
Seaweed drifts
as if pen green
gently brushing page.

Phases become mist
on deck
as self feels
the moisture of visions.

And on a quiet night,
when lighthouse in heart
guides poem to conclusion,
the wind carries self
to the dock of dreams.