Even with boats, sometimes cliques evolve.
One solitary wooden boat drifts alone while the others huddle together telling stories!
For The One Teaching Dreamers. Gifts At Dusk.
written by Tim Bellows
How many times can I step
into his wooden boat.
To meet his dreams,
my dreams? In how many seas
can I gather and hand out
his white roses, yellow violets,
pinpoints that flash like eyes?
I feel warm as his wider ocean.
My heart answers it. Streams
flow underground below the waters.
In dizzy miles above us
his wind currents
whisk across the tops of clouds.
Birds and fish hover
in their elements around us.
His boat rocks.
The boat is still as his sleep—
deep as sunset gold
or one gull´s curved flight. The lights
of stars are seen on the tips of waves
that continually shut their eyes.
The stars and I are waking up
as the breath of the master
sets us free to float
on the ocean of the only dream.
Simply A Lone Boat