Piloting

The hull laps softly on the sharp peaked waves,
drinking deeply of yesterday’s slick rain
fallen from heaven like crystaled angels
to kiss the dry, parched earth.  The wind hauls, strains
against the crisp white sky, the pale concave
of hurried clouds pulled taught against the lines.
The night air, crisp with the celestial signs,
or signposts, if you will, reflected here
upon the map. Our rightful road still etched
carved out by golden means.  Our course nowhere,
traced everywhere, three quarters drenched in brine
and the rest in saline.  But I am kissed
in soft worn wood, in strong set beams, I meld.
Part of the ocean, yet somehow withheld.