Adrift

I rowed for a year straight, and so
my arms were sore, my back was sore,
my throat was parched and I needed rest.
Drifted by lands of fantasy, not daring
to face dangers tropical and exotic;
jungles too green; suspiciously green.
Others a green too dark; black rock shorelines
faded in the night like so many landmines.

Water supply running low I took a chance
on a lonely island, solitary yet beautiful,
loving yet temperamental. Footprints in the sand
ran deeply, a heavy tromp, a naval officer perhaps.
They led out the way they came in, and I was
alone there for some time.

A copse of trees surrounded
fresh water, where I slept at night,
made meager meals of the native fruits,
just enough to get by. I kept the waterskins
filled to the brim, kept them in the boat
tied to a tree on the shore, should I need
to depart in haste. Storms came and went,
but I never needed to.

I stayed for a month straight, upon
that land of shifting sands, land of wildflower petals,
land of solitude, until it sank, like shifting island sands sink.
Shed a tear of longing as it bubbled underneath,
out on my own, out with the tide
my own damn tide on my own way out;
restocked, repaired.

Rinse and repeat, reclaim the waves,
patch the leaks that spring
in a heart that has no home.
Drift until you can't anymore.