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

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