[Paula Fernandez]

Might I Yet Billow? (Revision 2)

Midlife, I find my seat has been assigned;
I pull, then glide, snared in this rhythmic ride;
the coxswain’s commands not to be denied;
river, boat, oarsmen and I all aligned.
When did I choose to enter in this race--
a race ill-suited for the slow or kind?
What pensive paths, once loved, got swept behind
to seek more tangible rewards? That hurried pace
consumed my all in all. But if the east wind
blows in and rustles these sturdy sails of hope,
might I yet billow—full-souled—canvas & rope—
stand proud upon the prow before trip’s end?

Unclenching my fingers from that oar,
I gather this strong cloth off the floor.

***

Might I Yet Billow? (Revision 1)

Midlife, I find my seat has been assigned;
I pull, then glide, snared in this rhythmic ride;
the coxswain’s command not to be denied;
river, boat, oarsmen and I all aligned.
Truth told, I chose to enter in this race,
a race that doesn’t pause for the slow or kind,
and joyful things, once loved, got left behind
to sink beneath the waves without a trace.

But today! My muse whispered on the wind
and rustled long forgotten sails of hope.
Might I yet billow—full-souled—canvas & rope—
sing proud upon the prow before trip’s end?
Gathering this strong cloth off the floor—
Today! Unclench my fingers from that oar.
***

Might I Yet Billow?

Midlife I find my seat has been assigned;
I pull, then glide, snared in this rhythmic ride;
The coxswain’s dictate not to be denied;
River, boat, oarsmen, and I aligned.

Truth told, I chose to undertake this race
And with stout friends have persevered for long
Years, silent, without thought that aught was wrong,
Yet sensing muted grief constraining grace.

But courage whispers from within the wind
And rustles long forsaken sails of hope.
Might I yet billow—full-souled—canvas & rope—
Stand proud upon the prow before trip’s end?

Willing some wilder way to wend the shore—
Unclench my fingers from that oar.