By Victoria Crawford
Voyagers gaze from the sloop on deck, all at sea, under the sky, while the plowman of waves, in long furrows of weather and stars, steadies the tiller Through wind and storm, passengers scour the heavens, astrologers scavenging fate in mythic signs and shapes constellations of guidance unseen Tides rise and fall, curlicue currents, the helmsman holds his travelers safe through swells of confusion and tumult rudder firm, navigation ordained to dock in the havens
Autumn leaves blaze in colors of doubt the flame of question sparks: Stay the same? Or the hardest way, let go?
Le Mot Juste
Fountain pen leaks worn down by the miles splayed nib, blotched ink defaced last page This notebook replete, belly full, sated with words spiced and stewed Thankful for evolution gifts old and new, constancy and change, I open the drawer in joy for new pen and paper