After the Storm

by CAROLINE COLLINS

(for Susan Sweet)                                           

Streamlined and plain, its glossy green-yellow
glory days long past, shifted and set aloft
by last night’s storm, it voyaged through thunder
and lightning and torrents to end up
here, beached like a Viking ship—the long
stem now both keel and prow, the veins
sturdy ribs, bracing the unadorned hull,
the stern curled up by sun.

How long had it lain, to become so brimful
of rain, of sand grains like starlight,
and how many have crawled or landed here
today, unrolling their miniscule tongues
at its edge, those with no reason to sow
or reap or gather, except around this
perfect vessel of shade and oasis,
of water so pure and clear

that I wanted to be one of them, ferried
to a realm of promise, transported
to such bliss: to drink deep of the boat
of longing washed up on this makeshift shore,
brown magnolia leaf so full, set swaying still
by the slightest breeze, docked here 
just before the door, just when I am sure
my heart can take no more.