The northern sea was restless under gray,
while autumn gathered fire along the shore;
a ship turned westward, searching for its way.
Leif Erikson stood upon the prow,
with salt upon his face and wind behind;
the sea gave neither promise nor a vow.
Beyond the waves lay country still unnamed,
where forests met the water, green and wide,
and stories waited to be told and framed.
They found a shore where wild grapes climbed the land,
where timber promised shelter from the cold;
a place that sailors came to understand.
No golden city waited on the coast,
no throne, no jeweled palace in the sun—
just fields and woods, and ocean like a ghost.
Yet sometimes history begins this way:
with footsteps pressed into an unknown place,
with someone choosing not to turn away.
So let the northern winds remember still
the voyage westward through the autumn spray,
and Leif, who followed where the seas would will.