An evening stroll along the shore

revealed a giant-sized,

floating mass of wooden art.

I stopped to analyze.

It’s base was wide, of sturdy wood

of the choicest cut and grain.

The behemoth was connected to the dock

by a weathered and worn old chain.

Upon the base there stood a rail of ornately carv-ed teak

and on the front a cherub, mouth open as if to speak.

A rounded pole rose up toward heaven with a cross-arm intersection

and at the top an arrow revealed the wind’s direction.

A passer-by enlightened me.

I must have looked perplexed.

“It’s a ship. It sails.

Distant ports it connects.”

Of course, I thought, now that I knew

its name and its intention.

“By God,” I said. “I think you’re right,”

as was the convention.

From where could such a thing have come?

What forces put it there?

No maker was now coming forth

to claim a beast so rare.

“Could any man,” I thought aloud

“take on a task so big?”

No man I knew was man enough

to build this giant rig.

If no one nearby claimed the feat,

and no one I knew could,

then some other explanation

must explain this art in wood.

Hours of thought and supposition

helped me to see the light.

I was able to rationalize

this object here tonight.

Winds and tides must have stirred

the seas and forests near,

and finally probability won

and the beauty just appeared.