Hand over Hand

Hand over hand.

The sail climbs the mast,

it billows on the breeze,

heaves the hull forward.

How many times

Has a sail raised

by a halyard’s pull?

Have squinted eyes

scanned windward

for the next gust?

Has a tight fist

played out a sheet line

as a bow crashed

through the waves?

Hand over hand.

The main sheet is trimmed

it pulls in the boom,

close-hauled to the wind.

How many times

Has a boat been cast

from mooring

to ride the wind’s push?

Have the leeward wave-edges

darkened as a sailor leaned

further over the gunwale

to hold course?

Have these simple partners,

wind and sail

carried humans off to anywhere?

Hand over hand.

My daughter throws knotted coils of bow line

off the boat, screeching with joy

as they splash in the water.

I trim this old scow’s twisted rigging

and think of the subdued power

in these creaking boards and mildewed knots

to connect people through ages

the same way that their sail and keel connect

water and sky.