While it was dark,

             (and hellishly cold!)

the earth a frozen stone,

I dreamt of loam

              and pomegranates,

and a warm, green shore,

and a boat to ferry me home.

Before letting go,

a hand steadies each poem,

each little paper boat

set upon the water;

a flotilla bobbing,

laden deep with words,

and many a caesura:

galleons golden in the sun,

feluccas, sails taut as pterodactyl wings,

brigantines built of hearts of oak.

Little envoys from the Age of Sail.

Forgive us those days

we lit our lamps

                              with your oil,

scented our perfumes

                              with your ambergris,

carved scrimshaw

                             on your teeth,

stiffened corsets and made buttons

                             from your bone,

and orphans of your children.