Short panicked breaths
Treading icy water
Rounded waves pulse—Zenith and nadir
Tidal times—like the moon drawing our living water toward Underworld
Alone.
The lights of shore blink
The choking drench of wet waves blinds and garbles
One, two last buoyant breathes…
Silence.
But hope is a stubborn buoy
Even with the rock and tilt of the storm,
I rise, peak and pitch above the soaking wet
The marrow in my bones refuses to be frozen
At last, grace orients me across the patterned swell
And I begin to swim
I am not adrift, but have somehow set sail
I sprout mast and sail and rigging and lift off the water
Catch the howling wind and am one with the very waves that menaced destruction