Crossing To The Kind

He'll be there In the boatyard Awaiting my landing And off loading From the ferry That bridges the distance Between our shared stories Wearing his boyish grin Shaded slightly by an old straw hat I know now my troubles are on vacation We set up our tailgate picnic As traveler's will do Unaware or unconcerned if anyone Thinks it odd Uncorking wine and slicing cheeses Ripping lengths of French bread To dip into our laughter He smells of wooded moss and mushrooms I wear fresh flowers tucked into my hair He tells me there is good fishing And points to 'Over there' I toss a giggle into the sea air He tosses my overstuffed red bag Into the bed of his rustic running truck We count on own luck To provide a perfect weekend Of wandering in the same direction There will be mountain views Prettier than pictures painted Riddles of night sounds Their origins A mystery to figure out And stars, such stars Too many to imagine to count Quiet friendship to shutter out any sorrow I may have left at the ferry terminal