Your the one who fills my sails,
driving us across the seas.
The trip is sometimes stormy and often
on the rocks, once or twice.
But, when your gone,
I lay becalmed,
not washed by passion’s raging tempest,
nor riding life’s foaming, turbulent crest.
I drift the placid channel,
following the current,
prey to barnacle, bird, and fate.
So, I’ll take the chance
and gather your breeze
as it builds into a force
For I’d rather ride your raging tempest
than read the shore
long before I reach it.