Haven’t we all been wrong
in moments and left them
un-righted?
And occasionally glance back
at what’s in their boat’s wake?
torn things left on ragged stumps
shoes dropped after quick escapes
bloody rocks the waves of time
never wash clean
Still who doesn’t steer hopeful
towards that light in the night?
I know I do
and hope those hidden anchors
I drag through the muck
won’t stop me from reaching
the next sandy shore