A Calling

my boat is tied to a mooring,
though i rise and sink with the tide,
listening wind-ward for a calling,
to on the ocean ride.

the route is not foreboding,
against damp wood i sway,
as if Neptune is a-calling,
i cannot get away.

on peak of widow stand,
urging me home,
it is her voice that is a-calling,
again i cannot roam.

a hempen rope is twisting, winding,
around my bloated hull,
yet to my eyes the sea is calling,
looking for my gull.

time will fray the rope restricting,
the ocean's beckoning motion,
and turn my falling to a calling,
rekindling my devotion.

from Practicing My Chops 
new york city
march 30, 1994