Chaos

There is a moment in my life every day

when the conflict of a world I do not understand melts away.

I walk down the weathered planks of the docks

past boats larger and smaller than mine,

boats loved, and boats lost and forgotten,

they are still and sleeping

amid the lights reflecting on the river.

Ave waits for me at the end of the row,

strong and silent between the current and the dock,

tugging at her reins one night,

napping in a moonbeam the next,

no need to prove herself to me,

like the unstated calm of a grandparent’s love.

We don’t use words often while at rest, Ave and I.

I check her lines, smiling—

how well she has kept herself while I was gone!

A hand on the boom gallows and I pull myself aboard,

a click of the combination lock and the hatch swings open.

I climb below into a place of perspective, of logic,

of purpose and engagement and discomfort and joy

that is so easy for me to understand,

a stage where I need play no role at all.

Her walls, so narrow to most, hug me close with the warmth

of wood that has seen worlds I cannot even imagine.

Her floors creak underfoot and cry squeaks of delight to my ears,

happy that I am home to be alive on them.

Her motion in the water rocks me to sleep at night

and gently jostles me awake in the morning.

I know it will not always be like this,

will not always be like these nights so special,

but for now I pump water by hand

from the pump I rebuilt myself,

put the kettle on the stove for tea

and light her oil lamp

which sings soft songs of light against the walls.

At utter peace I sit, watching, listening,
the steam from my tea plays games in the air,

and no longer do I remember why it was

that the outside world was in chaos

or why I felt burdened to notice.