Holiday Adrift

From creaking dock to lapis sea,  

beneath the call of wheeling gulls,  

our feet left shore to meet the blue,  

hands brushing air as salt winds sang.  

The food arrived like gifts of gods,  

plates gleamed with oil and lemon light,  

the tuba swayed, the dancers twirled,  

night split by stars like splintered glass.  

Inside, the chill clawed at our skin,  

"We've gone off course," the captain sighed.  

Snow bent the railing, cloaked the moon,  

the engines groaned, the ice too thick.  

At first, we laughed—a challenge, quaint,  

until frost clung to tongue and teeth.  

I tipped my bottle, wish afloat,  

its glass a beacon, shard of hope.