The Boat

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