The captain stands at the wheel, feet spread,
white knuckled, eye on the compass, wind in
her hair, salt spray on her face.

The boat rises, and rises more until at the
crest of the wave it tips, and falls down the
back side like a child on a playground slide.

The mast leans, the rigging creaks and groans
as the mainsail holds the wind and the boat
climbs again for another wild ride.

This sailboat could have indeed experienced
raging wind and storm driven sea, could have had
a captain as fearless and carefree as she.

But for years the boat has remained landlocked
in a cradle in the backyard of a house
surrounded by weeds and dead trees.

Red and white hull paint worn, cracked and peeling.
The mast and rigging gone, no captain at the wheel.
And I can only imagine what might have been.