A Stormy Offering

Child of Winds

In my age of innocence, I freely embraced

The trades, riding a soft, sweet westerly.

Lovingly caressed at first by my friend,

I was unprepared when it went cyclonic.

I was laid waste, swallowing bitter dregs.

My bloodshot, tear-stained eyes left me

Blinded; that twister was but an outlier
Of a raging, pounding apocalyptic storm.

The fearsome wall hit me, shoveling all

Before it, plowing furrows across

The landscape of my red clay heart,

Ripping holes in my woven cotton soul.

I saw the decimation, seeming random

Slaughter, ships great and humble

Shattered, hardwoods splintered,

Pine laid low, so many matchsticks.

Scattered, smothered in the tempest,

I was carried up, up, and out, anon:

Spewed forth and falling, screaming,

Thinking wind itself to be my enemy.

I dared not dream as I plummeted

That I might survive, live to sail

Again, if never to be fully healed,

But here I am at the windlass.

My heart flies high on the foremast,

Double-sheet bend secure, exposed,
Slapped by every passing fancy,

Be it breeze, gust, gale, or typhoon.

Still, the knot holds, and I endure,

My colors showing honest agony,

Even as they are whipped to and fro,

Child no more, I fetch yonder horizon.