tHe MoRNinG sHiP

tHe MoRNinG sHiP

Ah, the dance of the swelling seas upon her briny bow,
The tempest she wrought against the evening sun,
An epic battle, the catch now emptied from her belly,
She sits upon the stillness of the bay like a picture postcard. 

Regal, she is. With her riggings tied in only the finest of knots. 
She has sailed through many an earth storm to be here with us 
To share her best secrets and mariner's tales of sea creatures, 
Dancing their dance, as she parted the waves, high above it all. 

Like residents of the proud port in which she anchors, 
Her wooden bones seem to know us all too well. 

Even the whales now tip their dorsal fins in respect, 
As they pass. The harbor is quiet in the early dawn. 

Like my spirit, this morning.

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