Half moon

When I sailed the oceans, when I discovered

a new route to China with the Halve Maen.

When I hung over the railing gray of scurvy,

when tidal waves spewed in my face like thin

dragons. Then I prayed to God. Then I begged

that the Almighty would lift me up in his hand.

Hereafter I bought a tropical island. I brewed

my own beer, I ordered wicker hammocks.

I no longer yelled at an All-Powerful, no longer

meditate on the idea of the God of Knowledge.

Was there such a thing as fate, a destination?

Admittedly, I lived. But I lived like butter in

a wooden tub. That's why I decided it was better.

Being on the road. To explore new ways with

a heavy heart. To hang on the half moon by

a thread. That ragged thread. Call it my prayer.