I have taken down my sail.
I fold the canvas slowly, a bright flag.
It flaps in the wind.
It is such a small thing, now.
It does not pulse in my hands.
I am not bothered by my disapointment; it does not seem alive.
The forces that had propelled me along for so very long.
All they can do now is ruffle my thinning hair.
And conspire with the setting sun to steal the moisture from my speckled chin.
There is this green dufflebag as long as the lower half of me.
I tuck and roll the sail in it. Maybe I will sell it to a parachute maker.
Or a costumer for an army of midget-clowns.
My day’s work, my today’s work.
Is half-done, only half done.
The lock-blade knife is nearly as old as me.
I have lovingly honed that blade along flat wet granite.
It slices without sawing through a rope
meant, once, to link the anchor to the aft.
Those waves lap up forever along the woodeness of my old friend.
And there are these oars.