The Passage

2011 © Anne Rose

 

My little boat glides across a narrow strip of shimmering blue, its wake licking island sands—white, true.

It seems to be snow, but I’m not sure, as my mind sees Arctic coasts—bleached, pure.

There I find the strangest sight of wind-up penguins in black and white. Sometimes I wonder if my mind is right.

 

My sister is dying. Or so they say.

It can’t be real, at least, not today.

I knew her once, a little girl, whose eyes saw things in just this way—sand castles of sugar, beaches of snow…

Is it real? It’s hard to know.

 

Her little boat transports her o’er. Now she’s nearing a more distant shore.

Closer and closer, the waves never cease,

drawn by the tide and a mysterious breeze.

 

I want to believe it. It has to be true,

for she’s passed through the mist now—beyond my view.

I wish I could see her, at least in my mind, in that wondrous place beyond all time.

But I’m somewhat adrift through troubles, dismay,

and need a sign that she’s found the way.

 

Suddenly, I see it! One spark of light makes it clear.

Her little boat has found the pier!

Thank goodness she’s gone ahead

to give assurance, to calm the dread.

Her face aglow, she’s through the door. It’s all she hoped for—and more.

 

Dauphin Island February 18, 2011 

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