It could be said that

our journeys

are nothing less than

the accumulation

of barnacled hulls and salted prows,

of decks swabbed, well-waxed.

Our crew, composed of those

most impressive, help our slow, steady progress

on the coursing waves of coarser seas.

They sing the old songs.

It could be said that

our wayfaring breezes,

blushed in day-fat skies,

signal us to find their end,

pathways noble, chosen, fearless.

Our guide-stars, poised in Spring-fair heavens,

simplify our white-ribbon’d way

through cushioning waves.

It could be said that

this blue-borne sprawl before us

like weedless gardens,

paths without walls,

is a wordless song of melodies, uninterrupted

and well-key’d, meant for voices

of children and saints.

It could be said that

whatever shanties once joined

throats in the shared songs of adventure

were nothing more than the nursery

rhymes of spoil’d children,

sung by swaying lunar choirs

of the misshapen but hopeful.

Of all the things that could be said,

I will say but one:

of this or any journey,

in the outward way before us –

we are not the Captain of our ships,

we are only

adding sails.