Taking Command of the Sea

Sugar salt air tickles the bow of Cape Minor,
a veteran captain.
He rolls from heel to toe,
heel to toe.
The gulls’ rhythmic cooing ripples on the ocean surface.
Laughing seaweed wave its jolly arms at the shadows of hope.
Today, my lads, we set sails.
Prime the outboard, but let it burn dry. Instead,
reach heavy handed for opportunity.
Let the dice hit the table, still rolling.
Set the
creamy sails of adventure
to billow in the stark, wet air.
Let your native flags
in the face of displacement and set your compass
two degrees
above the horizon.
Tainted? Not, is the voluptuous moon.

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