The Boats

the boats, the boats, my wooden boats

were never meant to dry

what is a boat that cannot float

and rots from air and sky?

I nailed a sheet, I named it twice

I waited on the spit

for wind, for wind, some kind of wind

to come and sail with it

this is my boat, my favorite boat

I built it with my hands

and on its shell, my earthly hull

I have become a man

some are washed and ground ashore

and some get thrown by tide

but this new world of mold and smell

it simply drowns my pride

and in the wake, I am awake

with no one to take the helm

and what I built with labor hard

grows still and soft and calm

we turn the cheek, we try to hope

for boats from other shores

and in the end we are alone

who are we to hope for more

some are washed and ground ashore

and some get thrown by tide

but this new world of mold and smell

it simply drowns my pride

the boats, the boats, my wooden boats

were never meant to dry

what is a boat that cannot float

and rots from air and sky?