Thursday, January 2, 2003
In The Harbor
The clicking of the rusty lock,
a hollow creaking of the ponderous door
the breathing of the knotty-pine floor
a light fluttering of the air
the peering of shiny eyes
and the reassured sour advised:
You are at home.
The adventures beyond are forgotten,
the blood is no longer circulating wildly
and the waves are not pounding.
To each other we now belong:
a grateful look,
the warmth of a smile
and a long holding of the hand.