Here in the sea
of my being,
sailing on winged
hope,
I ink a chartered
course
into the eye
of coming winds
of change—
bringing skewed
expectations
of what is to be—
not to be known until
aftermath shored waves
leave scared memories;
but even seas of beings
have shores of moorings wharfs
where one can anchor
with baited contemplation
for the teasing minnows of wisdom’s
circadian whorl pooling into self.