Robertson woke from a distant sleep
the misty crystals of his dreams
had washed away with the turn of the moon
left him alone in his wood paneled room
with only the fiery furnace roar
and the sound of silence at his door
it burned at his ears till he turned and ran
down the banks of the canyon he flew with the sand
down he kept going till water met land
and he saw the Morning Mainsail.


He dug in his heels and stopped up short
for never before had this ship been afloat
never before behind his home
had there been such a subject of tales past told
the white of the canvas lit up his face
smoothed out the lines, the worries erased,
the air it guided up to his side
he turned his head and let out a sigh
then inhaled the canvas air so light
it filled him up till he brimmed at the eyes
then leaving his shoes to the whims of the tide
he stepped onto the Morning Mainsail.


The knots untied and the sail unfurled
the breeze brought to him blustery words
“to sail the ship you must let go
of the wheel at the bow you so tightly hold”
and though he cried “oh save my soul!”
he dropped his hands and crouched down low;
the ship it tumbled, tossed and swam
over the riverbed rocks it ran
on the floor of the ship he knelt with his hands
covering over his head in fear
that the Morning Mainsail would shatter.


Then sudden and swift the rocking ceased
the billowing wood and the creaking breeze
the wheel stopped spinning and turned to the right
and Robertson raised his head so slight
he saw the canyon walls pass by
the roots that led to the higher pines
he saw his wooden shingled home
heard his fiery furnace groan
the ship was anchored on the wind
and high up further till his house disappeared
till only a speckled dot was his roof
and only a whisper was the furnace soot
and he whispered out loud till it turned to a shout
“I’ve woken to see myself dreaming!”


Collected from toys and grandma’s china
the dusty sands will roll down the canyon
to meet the great wide rivers winding
the air that tosses and blows their landing
down with the churning charging muses
to meet the fork where water chooses
there on the banks that the river made
the generations of children wave
the evening stars will blink and fade
as the Morning Mainsail lands.