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I lost a friend and mentor as we sailed across the Indian Ocean. Living, he was larger-than-life, and even now, two months after his passing, his presence fills my thoughts, especially on Thanksgiving Eve. This one's for Don -- God bless you my friend.
Vacuum
When the wind
dies,
it doesn’t just
stop,
like you did, far
away,
on the day we
departed
unknowing into
the easterlies,
underneath a
tropical sun,
sails reefed,
ready for the unexpected
but never
imagining, unable to
prepare ourselves
for, the absence
of wind, these trades
now
silent after a
deepening low
swept across this
ocean,
gathered us in
its gradient, and
stilled the wind
in fits and starts:
a gust, a lull, a
puff, then a reluctant quiet,
the ocean
unruffling, the air speechless.
No, it takes time
for the wind to die,
time for the
vacuum you left behind
to make its way
here, to this ocean,
our boat adrift,
alone, becalmed.
Oh – for the wind
to return,
to have never
left us!
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