Hand over hand, pulling in the line
as waves crash, and continuously crack.

The bow and back, hit hopefully
by wind strong enough
to push us home, or out to sea

or boredom rises from the deck, as we create
tied knots neat and straight, as our thoughts drift
through calm breeze shifts, and still we sit
with no work here to do but wait.

The port fish below
and the starry birds above
know little of our troublesome tides,
the pain and burden of our lives
and reaching through the immensity of the world I float.