The words are whittled in-
to woody planks, tethered
to an Eastern Shore dock—
a petition inscribed by one
who stridently chiseled it in-
to existence. A reverent prayer
now notable to the residents
there. Sometimes sung under
the breath, life-giving
words carried on the crabbing
Chesapeake Bay winds.

I sauntered the dock, nocturnally
beheld the sky there, a spread-
open Milky Way—absent city lights,
a different sky; a curtain
draping the heavens in
an unfamiliar marvel. I exposed
my smallness, a wilted note sung faintly
beneath the remarkable breadth.

From the stilted mooring I sang the words,
singing them over a whittled-under
Harborton prayer, adding where I live now;
“…where I live now.”

Glenn Lyvers