The Ferry
While crossing the sound we climb
to the upper deck where the sky is spread
in a banquet of stars. In summer more people come topside
to be part of a night like this: Whidbey Island behind us
swaying. Gull gliding above in clean, moist air.
Mid-sound, there's a clear view of Mount Baker
our great active crest ascending a fault
restless as the two boys who race by me
vaulting over a row of vinyl seats.
When one tumbles, he has to reassemble his pride
with every muscle posed against humiliation.
But then he laughs UNCONTROLLABLY
and it hits me like a caffeine jolt that I want more of that.
More quick, quick uncensored releases
of pure joy. So I vow right here
on this steel ship to take more delight in life.
I know these words sound ready-made as a bumper sticker,
but I want them inside me just the same,
so the rest of me might grow around them.
Now, pulling up to the island, a jerking motion
wobbles the passengers. Some of us are home.
Others turn toward the relief map on the wall.
I smile at their huddled enthusiasm. All I want is to drive home
and be home. But the everydayness of this ferry nudging the dock
won't slow them and I envy their eagerness, the surge of fascination
we feel when a place is new. So, against the high-stake risk
of failing at another resolution, I make a pact to try, at least once a day,
to see the beauty of this green and peopled place
with the eyes of a newcomer. As if I carry a backpack
and wide-angle lens. As if I need a place
to stay for the night. |