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Sailing
by Fran Castan
If it weren't for the trees,
There are times we would not notice
The life of air. We'd forget
We are whirling. Two pines at the inlet
Seem at first one tree,
Until the air lifts their branches
Carries their long, slim trunks
Away from each other and back.
Then, they seem to gossip.
Oh, there I go again,
Always demanding meaning,
The sort of narrative
That delights English:
Noun and verb and direct object
To suggest purpose, not chaos.
I love plans. In the afternoon,
Our grandson sees the half-
Moon in a sky blue sky
Alive with foamy clouds. Having spent
Only nineteen months on Earth,
With unblemished freshness
And no linguistic bias,
He points to that brilliant mass
Afloat in the blue and says, "Boat!"
I want to lift the sails,
The battened years of seeing.
I want to shout, "Boat" at the moon.
I want to remember our moon boat,
To recognize, every moment,
Even at a desk, paying bills,
Even when the wind is still
And Earth seems unplanetary,
We are sailors of the Milky Way,
Waving our spangled arms
To all who travel
The universe.