Smooth sails glide, glisten…
cut neat crevices down wispy waves that
fold and fumble, curl and crash,
spread, sink, rise, roll
as the wind skates along the somber surface,
rumbling and bumbling into its black, murky drudgery,
waning into foamy, white swirls,
twirls and swirls, like the frills of a jade dress never ending,
pushing forward the rusted white tut tut
that juts up like a shard
of a drab world slowly drowning,
slowly sinking, without sounding,
as green crashes with green,
as white grains rush and roll in between,
‘til taken into the emerald hills that reel in
and die on shore…

making white-washed hands grip the wavering wheel, tight,
tugging with tough knuckles at the timber loop,
a silent prayer for a pearl drop in the soft folds of a Lily pad….

A sun shyly peeks at the wallowing waters
glazed under the brush of its far reaching rays,
wondering when, or if, it should rise, rise, rise…
just to fall fast again.