Sailing The Sound Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

We shove off.
I take starboard,
you take port and rudder,
I the jib.
The rising sail puffs proudly,
slackens then inhales in sport.
Will we have
shifting gusts or calm or gale?
Above the ribbons,
one on either side,
take turns,
to flutter, fall, flash red or green
to signal changes in the wind and
guide us where to steer,
which way to shift and lean.
I want today
to be a special day
and yet I fear
I'll see your anger flare.
If we can stay in rhythm,
task, and play
perhaps you won't observe
my jealous glare.
By dock
will there be tears
amid the brine?
I scan your face
for any tell-tale sign.