I have always taken
the four a.m. watch:
those three hours before dawn when,
inhaling the moist sweetness
of a new day, we awake
and escape last night’s darkness,
leaving technology
to experience
quiet and primitive satisfaction.
The ocean rushing underneath,
its volume
dependent upon current hull speed,
spills a phosphorescent wake —
the only natural source of light
besides the moon.
Rolling up and down,
swaying into balance
on the balls of my feet while
cradling the warmth
of a mug’s contents.
Soon
an orange sliver appears
and grows, as the sun
finds the seam in the weld
that fixes sea to sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem