Frosty mugs clinking;
Good times before the voyage.
I take a stroll down by the slips;
Murmur of water against razor sharp inboards.
No fog but foghorn blowing
Distant... my soul.
Lights sparkle between horizon waves;
The stars are voyagers, too.

Won't you?

Morning bright;
Leather hands pull at hemp.
Spinnaker flies.
Roll, pitch, and yaw;
Swaying into the sun.
Tacking against the wind.
Hanging on the trapeze;
Dipping my back into the waves.

Won't you?

Nearing the edge,
I run aground
On the last shoal.
Climbing the stone
Of farsight,
Fingers dislodge memories.
No more time for home fires;
The sun sets eternal cascades afire.

Won't you?

The stars my destination.
The jewel of new mornings within my grasp
And nights of milky madness
Call across the abyss.
I alight upon mists of silvery moonshine
And cross to the other shore.

Won't you?