I was lying, fastened securely by a bow of rope,

breathing, wind in the sails of a ship,

the knot loosening after billowing gust,

only to be retightened,

fastened, steadfast,

ready for the next rolling wave,

when I realized:

I do not need to do anything to be loved.

Anything I am is as good as chance.

After all, there is so much which I am

which I know nothing of -- arguably everything --

or at least, so much -- arguably everything --

which I cannot control.

 

Gentle misty light-cool rays reflecting in round coral patterns,

flickering, flying and refracted across a now still sea, shimmering,

splittering glimmer of gray-blue, only gentle

pushing and pulling light pressure on the line,

it is here, in the morning calm, that I know.