a song for a sailor   You steer a wayward course at times. Your sails are snarled while the crew bickers and the first mates schemes; the carpenter bends all his nails, and down in the galley the mess gets worse. Yet you still do not trust the cook with fire, or the navigator with precious charts and open logs, you do not heed the higher voice of the lookout, calling out the stars. But the ship is tight, and the storms will still, and a well-tended fire will feed the men, they will speed to their stations, they'll be true; you will win the mate's heart, your sails will fill and will deliver you: this cargo of incense and divinity, this ship, this captain, this crew.     © Michael Fleming San Francisco, California October 1995