The Sweet Hand

Upon the silent deck I stood,
No breeze to stir the air.
Beneath the heavens’ mirrored hood,
A restless soul laid bare.

I shut my eyes and whispered low,
To conjure gentle breath,
To fill my sails and bid them grow,
Across the sea’s wide breadth.

Soft whispers swirled, the glassy sea,
In waking dreams, I lay.
A lover’s voice, it called to me,
“Roll over,” did it say.

The name, a breeze within my ear,
Strange, yet clear as day.
“Mistral,” it spoke, drawing near,
In its wild, untamed way.

Though oft I held the helm with might,
I yielded to its charm.
It spun me ’round in endless night,
With naught but its sweet harm.

To mountains high, it promised flight,
Where beauty knows no end.
“Mistral,” it sang, a siren’s light,
My steadfast course to bend.

Through endless watches, I await,
That breeze to set me free.
To whisk me back, ere it’s too late,
To where my heart finds glee.

And on the waves, I breathe your name,
Across the empty span.
You’ve made of me a dreamer, tame,
In Mistral’s wild, sweet hand.

:: 02.24.2024 ::