Everyday
                                                          On my walk to the ocean
I evade the thunder struck
                                                                       Cracking,
Century-old, chestnut yacht
Which, years ago,
Rolled forth to shore when a storm
Raid at once, tearing it to pieces
To its seemly soul,
It dropped down
In the gust of the rapid storm
In a burning shatter of wood and metal split in thirds,
And became what is known to be every since-
A faded chestnut yacht
Drifting 
In the white sands of spring showers
Like the near rising finish of its course
Floating 
Upon the gushy Pacific. 
                                         But, hear me out, I'm tired of the unsolvable problem:
Termination And reconstruction.
I’m sick and tired of perception about how the yacht will reunite 
To the shore again,
Through the wait of patience-
How the seashells and starfish
Will arrive in spring
How they'll anchor the bow onto the soft wet sands
To suffer through the night rush
Like the northern lights in the sky- 
What I love, I mean, was that particular carved chestnut yacht-
Yacht of the year- yacht of my own soul, key to my heart- 
And I don’t want to waste anymore of this journey
My favorite Yacht returned home at last, his exquisite stained red chestnut wood
And the shiny coat of the freshly brushed lacquer reflecting off the ocean waves 
Braving the deep ocean,
And far into the mist of the evening.