There may come a time when I tire
of freighters on horizons
when the press of industry
and expectation
these optic pleasures
to dust subsumed
arising as intelligence
that aggravates.
That time has not yet come.

Agrarian hypocrisy
would have us travel
to our all-inclusive paradise
on hand-wove balsa rafts propelled
by solar flares, organically conceived.

Let me not be misjudged—
though if I am, so what?
I too despise dependencies,
depletions and demonics that
would tear from fellow humankind
their choice to be employed
or sweetly idle, but do not think
that I would sacrifice my breadth
and depth and height to lessen
the distress of wearied and regretful
thoughts not mine. Horizons
are the diametric measurement
of me, of you, to anywhere.

And having measured, I’m quite sure.
Of vast, gray ships on mighty tides,
I shall never tire.


Author’s note: More than a few mayflies died untimely squashes in the lakeside writing of this poem.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016