It could be said that
our journeys
are nothing less than
the accumulation
of barnacled hulls and salted prows,
of decks swabbed, well-waxed.
Our crew, composed of those
most impressive, help our slow, steady progress
on the coursing waves of coarser seas.
They sing the old songs.
It could be said that
our wayfaring breezes,
blushed in day-fat skies,
signal us to find their end,
pathways noble, chosen, fearless.
Our guide-stars, poised in Spring-fair heavens,
simplify our white-ribbon’d way
through cushioning waves.
It could be said that
this blue-borne sprawl before us
like weedless gardens,
paths without walls,
is a wordless song of melodies, uninterrupted
and well-key’d, meant for voices
of children and saints.
It could be said that
whatever shanties once joined
throats in the shared songs of adventure
were nothing more than the nursery
rhymes of spoil’d children,
sung by swaying lunar choirs
of the misshapen but hopeful.
Of all the things that could be said,
I will say but one:
of this or any journey,
in the outward way before us –
we are not the Captain of our ships,
we are only
adding sails.
A fire makes its heartening presence known, tucked under the hearth upon which hang individual stockings and an antique clock I inherited from my Dad. A delightfully chaotic looking tree, augmented with bobbles made by growing dexterity of little boys’ fingers, the accumulated little boy detritus of Christmas past. They are now men of humour, virtue, and creativity. 
