He hurled at the harbor and headed home,
seasick from the salt skies – shuddering, soaked.
Sound and hale he grew, sickness overcome,
safe and hearty, too, at his pipe he smoked:
His wife and young son were well and at peace;
he wept to himself and went at his lox;
salt tears and salt fish evoked the deep seas,
but he traded in his oar for a tree axe:
Until his entrails trembled, his sinews
shook at the sound of the tides sighing thus:
' Twas not yet your time; the seasons unbind
like day after dark over the waves' hues.
You are the morning star day breaks behind,
chosen not to die, but chosen to choose.