Maritime Epistle
by Michael Nowicki
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The bone-hard water punches the prow. I hoist the anchor,
pull the chain from the untold deep of Michigan
and row to the shore. I cannot see
what waits beyond the setting sun.
The clouds hold God's thunder
grasp fire from red heavens
yet my oars split the whitecaps.
I tell the night demon he will not cast my soul into the dark,
to gnash its silent teeth and beg for the light of morning.
The shore waits for me --
sand soft brilliance.
The path leading through the woods
just a walk away.
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