the boat is a loan
to the sea.
without it,
hypothermia;
and down to the sea.

but for now,
the wood is warm
beneath your palm.
the sail,
a taut lung
full of wind.

the horizon is not a line
to be crossed,
but a breath to be held,
and released.

so mend the leaks
with sticky resin,
and praise the splinters
that prove you touched
a real thing.

when the storm comes,
and it will;
you will not curse the water
for being deep.
you will thank the loan
for the days it was
yours to steer.

and when the last nail
pulls free,
and the green water
takes its weight back,

you will not have drowned.
you will have
returned a gift.