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I grew up on the water.
For as long as I can remember I heard the boats absorb the waves, hitting the docks. I heard aluminum collide with semi-submerged tires, floats, wooden dock and steel poles that supported them.
Their gentle tinging was a big wind chime, and it slowed my pulse.
I remember considering their plight, rocking against the storms, facing winds and being pelted by raindrops.
Each morning as the clouds rolled away, and the grasses shed their last drops, the boats would be there, strong as ever, drying out as well.
They weathered well, all friction and force.
And that's how it is now, in the midst of a storm, holding fast and waiting for the sun. Our love is our mooring, and we collide rhythmically, with the faith that we can make it until morning.