Harbor

Standard

 

The wayfarer knows

how traveling goes—

the long lonely nights

and rocky roads,

 

the calloused feet,

and bread—no meat;

a dead-weary head

from lack of sleep.

 

But hilltop highs

bring gypsy sighs,

for the blue below

holds wondrous sights—

 

hearts glowing bright

with a firefly light,

cartwheeling their dance,

magic the night;

 

before she can yawn,

up stretches the dawn,

and an ocean of smiles

out and beyond.

 

Past eons of roam

comes harbor and home,

so she walks to the ship—

calls it her own—

 

but the ship is long gone.

She had thought she was done,

but it seems her wayfaring

has only begun.

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