Worthy

Her bones are those
Of a finely timbered ship
Crafted for the seas
And not the harbor.

Her flesh is that of canvas
Full of salt and spray
Billowed with purpose
Prepared for endless crossings.

Her mind is as the wheel
Steady 'neath her Master’s hand
Ready and longing
To be free of line and gone.

Her eyes are those of the compass
Sighting the sun
Fixing her place under
The stars and moon.

Her spirit is the ship’s creaking
Pressured by the tossing sea
Battering waves
And tensions of her rigging.

Her hearing is as conch shells
Passing 'neath her keel
Searching whale songs below
And storms aloft.

Her nostrils, filled with breeze
Drink both salty savors
And coastal strands'
Earthy scent.

She tastes the tang of oceans
The bitterness of lost mariners
The sweetness of discovery
And relish the spices of harbors.

She rolls in the seduction of trade winds
The sharp pang of storms
In the volatile Caribbean
And sorrows tendered in her wake.

How I would serve her
Canvas full
With decks awash
Leaning into the shoulder of storms!

A worthy vessel is she
Made for the lifting of seas
A matchless maiden so free
From Boston to the Leeward Antilles!