Sailing

The day unfolds like a hand

soft and slow, releasing its grip

on time, on memory, on the weight of things.

The boats drift, white moths on the water,

their sails thin wings against the sky,

stirring only the slightest breath,

as if afraid to shatter the quiet

that hangs like a whisper,

unspoken, between earth and heaven.

The horizon blurs where sea meets sun,

a silver thread stitching

this world to another,

where maybe dreams sail,

and every driftwood hope finds a shore.

On the sand, shadows lengthen,

their edges smudged by the day’s last light.

We watch, as if from a distance,

the boats, the sky, each other—

held in the moment’s easy stillness,

like a secret kept too long.

Here, all is simple, all is slow.