THE CROSSING

Arms hug across our chests
Like chilly birds we flap
to warm ourselves
against the wind
whipping at our faces

The ferry groans and shifts
Like an old lady
making her way across the bay
begrudging and proud
altogether

We sit on benches
watery eyes squinting at the cold
Like hardy parishioners
embattled and determined
hopeful

Across the water
the island sleeps
Waiting out winter's
crisp embrace
a haven of God's own making

Finding respite from
the cacophony of summer voices
their lives go on
tethered by
this crossing
of the sea.