The V boarded doors...
hold storms at bay.
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Boathouse, Great Spruce Head Island
The V boarded doors, bolted and impenetrable, hold
storms at bay. The summer’s litter of construction, rib
patterns, bolts, knuckle and Y braces blanketed in dust.
Icy tides visit thrice daily, slipping under the open sill,
leaving wrack line offerings, parallel stripes of seaweed,
entwined with burnished orange crab, wave-whittled wood.
Over the long winter, the tarp-cocooned dories, planks taut
as sounding boards, long for the clatter of oars, the galvanized
slip jolt into oarlocks, the certain grasp of work-leathered hands.
The oldest boats languish season after unused season. Forgotten
inside muffled shrouds, the once varnished hulls grow paper
thin and brittle like last year’s wasp nests ragged under eaves.
Tug open the door. Can you feel it––the yearning to sail in a
galloping wind, to narrowly miss treacherous ledges, to nuzzle
a star-studded sea in the inhale and exhale of tides all night?
Ins i de t he Wi nt e r Boa t hous e
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