carefully steering away from winds,
I search for a harbor to hold me fast,
any island to provide shelter.
the waters are gray, not blue,
sometimes churning, dashing
my craft upon cold unfeeling rocks.
where is the light when I need it most?
have all the lighthouses fled inland?
in the moment when despair
has risen like agitated water's foam,
a new day rises above endless sea.
not the sun, not a keeper's light,
just your eyes. home at last.