This year has been a wicked sea—
a tempest gale of pain and loss.
Hanging by a thread—a raft—
about the waves I flail and toss.
Like stinging water against my face,
I’m not sure I’ll feel myself once more.
Longing for that distant place,
I dream of a fruitful and endless shore.
I’ve not any sails for wind to blow.
Even still, no gusts will muster awake.
I envision direction, but no place to go,
and am enveloped with grief—a nauseating wake.
Then, I feel a welling up—
a fire inside to keep me warm.
If the wind refuses to naturally blow,
then I suppose I must become the storm.