a thousand ghost ships rest
in sand, up to their decks
and the fish tend to the sails
like lazy sailors draped in sequined coats.
high above, it’s cold.
i bury my hands inside my jacket.
the wind is taking no prisoners,
i catch my breath as it’s pulled from me.
my own ghosts slip out with every exhale
and i draw shapes in the cold sand,
buried up to my throat
in age and sequined nostalgia.
there’s too much here to ignore.
a forest of smiling trees, gentle hills
and the breeze screaming, “stay,” into my ears.
a ship without an anchor, a storm without a heading.
barnacled and weighed down, splintered
yet seaworthy still. my sails snap taut,
the waves push me hard into the trees
and i stand in the crow’s nest searching for home.