After the gun, the yacht racers step into the clubhouse.

The smell of white table linens and low conversations
Are replaced by stories of sails,
And the scent of wind.

Sometimes the yacht racers forget the tactics of love.
Their eyes drift toward the lake,
While their quiet families speak to them of mortal things.

Come winter,I steal to the docks to fill my eyes with boats.
I walk between them, cradled up hard,
running my hands along the sides.

In the summer when I see sails on the lake horizon
I can be with them again,
Remembering the curve of each cool, smooth hull.


Poem by David Spence.

Image by Ann Ivy Male.

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