Coming In

I come in at dusk, the hull still holding
the long strain of open water.
Salt has dried along the seams.
The ropes are stiff in my hands.

The harbor takes me without question.
No ceremony.
Only the slow turning toward shore,
the small adjustments of wind and wrist,
the body remembering how to arrive.

Wood answers wood.
A dull knock against the pier.
I feel it travel through the keel,
up into my legs.

I tie her off,
pull the line hard,
test it once more than needed.
The cleat holds.

For a while I stay standing,
listening to what is left of motion
leaving the boards.

The water settles.
So do I.

There is a smell here
I have not carried with me.
Not spice, not distance,
but rope, tar, faint rot,
and something warm from the shore.

Light gathers in the windows.
Voices move across it,
low, familiar in their shape
even when I cannot make out the words.

I step down.
The dock gives slightly underfoot.
My balance shifts, corrects.

On land, the body feels heavier.
More certain.
The work of holding steady
is no longer required.

I run my hand once along the rail,
feeling the worn grain,
the places where weather has opened it.

She has carried me.
That is enough.

Tonight I do not think of distance.
Not of storms,
not of where the line of water goes.

Only this place,
the quiet taking of weight,
the closeness of things that do not move.

I walk inland a few steps
and stop.

Behind me, the boat rests
with a small sound against the pier,
like breathing that has finally slowed.

I leave her there.

I do not need the sea tonight.