Your bed is a boat in the dark,
All blue plaid and stillness,
With a host of lighthouses above as you sleep.
A turquoise sailboat sits on the shelf in the closet,
painted by your mother, for her father
who never saw you sail it.
He wanted to be a sailor, you know,
but was always getting seasick
And settled on taking the boat to the park
but never did it.
He painted those lighthouses for you
and the ship keeling in the waves;
For your brother, too, before he even knew of him.
So much of life that he wanted–
He would have thrown himself overboard for the both of you,
And now we do.
There will be a mundane day or two, of course,
Then fire and noise–
That’s how change happens.
But for now, just your soft whistle breathing
As you sink deep to see what dreams wait.
You are a coracle,
Here is your Ithaca.
Trust the wind, be full,