by Randy MacLean

Sometimes you're in a little boat
in a broad expanse of water.
The weather report is excellent
so what the hell are these gigantic grey clouds?
I've got to get back to shore.

Stroke, stroke.
These oars aren't . . . meant
for . . . speed.
Too late - too late.
Ride out the storm.
The boat is my friend.
Boat, good friend, hang on.

I love you, boat.

When I read this for Wednesday Morning class, all were moved by its simple truth. I'm so proud of this Wildfire Writer who didn't even call himself a writer until last year, and had never considered that he was a poet.

Do you have any idea, really, of the scope and breadth of your talents?

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