At Slack Tide

sums up some of my feelings this morning. Thanks Peter

Gathering Stones Strung on Threads

There is a space
between the tides
where the sea is calm
It’s where the currents sleep
wearied as they are
by the tug-of-war
of eternal lunacy

Here is the place
I’d drop my anchor
where tides are slack
It’s where the sea’s at peace
and where I’d sleep
were Life to offer
me safe harbor

But sailors know
the slack tide’s gift
isn’t one of tranquility
It’s here the decision is made
to navigate the channel
which at running tide
leads to shipwreck

“I have occasionally had the exquisite thrill of putting my finger on a little capsule of truth, and heard it give the faint squeak of mortality under my pressure, an antic sound.” ~ E.B. White

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