The Spirit of the Wind
Her lines, classic elegance bow to stern,
had the appearance that made a man yearn
to possess , to enjoy retaining for his own,
as if on the tide, off to places unknown.
That first day as she sashayed across Cruz Bay,
I was infatuated, for beauty had her say
in spirited exuberance, perfection providing
these eyes adoration's twinkle, presiding.
Describing perfection is not easy at all,
I know it when I see it whether springtime or fall.
That day no one needed to remind she was there,
attention never left 'til the anchorage was bare.
A ship like a woman both in name and in fact,
entirely the female, unpredictably act;
in sunshine or squall, fair weather and foul
may tempt her skipper to throw in the towel.
But we men adore them, it's part of our being
to seduce and woo well, sometimes never seeing
destruction's bleak shoals, determined to take them,
we see late the debris, jump ship and forsake them.
'Spirit of the Wind', an Aphrodite to all
aspirants seeing her, selected, tan and tall,
one sailor, her largesse bestowing on him.
In Cruz Bay, two lovers, became one, verbatim.
Fifty years together, exultant by her side,
till, off the Dry Tortugas, a rogue rip-tide,
broken spine, sent deep down half of me. Remind
the breeze, my fair lady still sails this lonely mind.
--Le Goobairre Extrodinarre
copyright 1997, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved