The world is small

So, the world is small
a distant fleck of light on a shivering night
huddled beneath the green intent of building a fantasy
borne of cool strokes in thankful connection.
Arms to hips
fists to grips
angles and ships
trusting navigation to the waves
anchors to rudders
views from the moon
pulling and pushing
resistance and release
assessment and belief
chartering the ebbs and tides with the patience of a saint
who whispers from behind
this has been done before
through storms and skies unadultered
risks and sly lovers
pinning fate within the bend of a stalwart bow
scrawling moments as refracted plows
sent to till and establish that which can grow up from a seed
the beauty of a need
to tend and imagine
stalks strong and robust.
These two cannot match
driving forward and standing up
to lean down and ignite the pluck
slipping past my hip, dropping an illusory lip.
To claim yourself a steward is cruel
while the water and the soil waits.
Dependent upon the skies and seasons
that pull our tide and make our gardens grow.
Lucky Tide, it always shifts
as the Earth bestows it's gifts.
Here I float, fingers tensed
imagining the beauty on a fence
lost in the prince with no common sense
steering the rudder with the wind of the waves.