The northern winds, once proud, once vengeful,
have collapsed on themselves,
shouldering a wrath keener then the sirens.
It is their incumbent, their one sole heir,
soaring towards a horizon, receding
beneath the wings of the scarlet ibis,
like hope -- faint tendrils, formless, yet substantial.
On a painted boat glazed wet with intent,
a lone traveller gazes beyond certainty,
into the wild expanse of water and salt.
Living, breathing , consuming air as if he were fire,
wavering in a coat of black, blue and crimson
without direction, for long they have ceased
to whittle edges off stubborn whetstones,
to lumber a finite crux to a point beyond flux.
As the sails fold and billow, imperfect dreams rise and ebb.