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