I panic, I’ve lowered the price.
My boat may sell before I sail again,
and my long reaches into the glittering sea,
moments of enchantment will be memory.
Inevitably, like a failing sea breeze,
movements in an aging life diminish.
Birds on the ocean are different
than those around my safe quiet cottage,
their cries, never echoed by obstruction
fade into the forever receding horizon,
the infinite future I now see cut.
Kent Bowker 5/12/2012
One thought on “On Selling ‘Seminole’”
Some writers rage against death, and we have both done that, but in this poem, I feel the melancholy that usually accompanies old age when death is more acceptable.
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