The boat recalls its younger years
when blue paint wasn’t faded.
An oar still waits for willing hands
to guide it down the river.
It’s tied to weary, splintered dock
that’s seen too many winters.
It’s overgrown and feet too far
from dark and dirty water.
But boat and dock are patient.
they’ve nowhere else to go to.
Perhaps some year they’ll feel the beat
of running feet that long for what they offer.
published in Prolific Pulse
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