It matters not how much the wind may blow,
nor if the seas should rise up through the floor;
the anchor of my craft is sunk below,
and I am to this spot moored evermore.
Should this fierce season flail its storms at me
and seek to wrest my hold from this small spot,
to face the torrent is my destiny;
what comes, if good or bad, shall be my lot.
‘Tis not an act of courage, or last stand,
but simply put, I’ve realized to run
is just as futile; what good are new plans
that rest on such foundations? I’ve begun
to realize the import of a place:
it rests not in its grand design or sport,
but rather in the nature of its space,
that finds in such small things such great import.
What if the ship is wretched loose from its chain,
its timber torn asunder in the fray?
Despite the great destruction, what remains
is greater than what’s lost. And so, I stay.
27 AUG 2005
