it’s the bottom of a bowl
where things tend to congregate
like boats and water and people
and gravity, going over across the way.
you stand ashore, near the beach,
near the ferryboat dock, you watch, you be sure,
you see them come see them go, make sure
they’re for real.
secure the ropes, pretend your floating feet
resemble land. although you’ll never quite
cease from walking up-hill.
fish feet first is the rule.
there’s a long wide thread, invisible,
but you can see its’ shadow in the water
scuffed right astern your ferryboat shoes.
it’s where you’ve been but are no more.
surely… someone… on the other side wants
your company. isn’t that one thought when
you trade your coins at the gate?
water is blue, but no, it’s pale sun green
turning to veiled face. ferry is mostly white
but partly it is busting rusting orange.
when it’s really calm your ghost
looks more real looking back at you.
dogs hang heads out car windows.
humans gather on the paws of boats.
pull that string tight. speak loudly
into the tin-man can. it’s important for
stories to reach the far shore.
it matters to know the name of your boat.
it’s a mistake to feign indifference. else if
you get lost at sea, how will you make yourself
a ferryboat is where water and sky
used to be. but they keep changing
their minds about where.
ferryboats float on grace,
which is another word for displacement
ferryboats understand flowers
the way snow understands moss.
in a former life I was a ferryboat.
here’s a small secret:
when you’re crossing middle,
looks like you could be going either way.
image: Washington state ferryboat, Puyallup, two miles from my home.
post: a refrain in thanks to Kerfe and her inspired image & poem & music
post. beautiful. Thirteen ways of looking at Living.