The Sailor

For My Miscarried Child:

The Sailor has set out today, the one I’ve known a few weeks time.
“I must be on,” the Sailor cried, “my fate belongs to foam and brine.”
An ache of chords resounds your flight, with tears you quiet leave.
No one else remains to hear, no one else remains to grieve.

A limber vessel carried you here cross dunes of time and space,
but in your stead, I’m troubled still, for I’ve yet to see your face.
Though your hands wield no talisman, your eyes behold no guiding star,
I know you’ve sailed to silver shores and wondrous worlds a way afar.

I’ll wait here on these wooden docks for the day you will return,
and smile at the task you’ve made, the one I now discern.
For when my ship is called to port and thus unfurl her weathered sails,
I shall travel on for one more reason now: to see your soul unveiled.