After the Storm

Splintered mast and gunwale, 
what was vessel now driftwood. 
Salt-crusted charts, useless compass. 
The ocean, having made its point, 
retreats to ordinary blue.

We survivors cling to remnants, 
waterlogged and humbled. 
No difference between captain and cook now. 
The sea's democracy is absolute.
Gulls circle overhead, patient witnesses to this old story. 
They've seen it all before: how human certainty breaks apart 
against the older truths of water and wind.

The wreckage floats, rearranges itself 
with each passing swell. 
Already becoming habitat, small fish 
darting through cabin windows, 
barnacles claiming purchase.

Nothing is wasted in this economy. 
What we call destruction 
the sea calls change. 
The world continues.