The sky is the quartermaster
But you are it’s eyes,
Currying favor from
Life’s narrow surprise;
The days of your weather
Arrive fair or foul,
Delivering artifice;
As much as allowed.

I sail in your auspices,
Partake of your airs;
Not minding the skies,
Whether cloudy or clear,
For found nowhere else
Are the things you are giving;
And till your arrival,
It’s not really living.