Weaving...Sailing - Two poems

Weaving

I weave, I weave
Although no strand has passed
From hand to hand
For countless ages now

An unseen coat perhaps
Of endless absent threads
One that none may truly want
Or ever care to wear

I weave, I weave
And yet no yarn nor cloth emerge
A fragile phantom shroud
To clothe a formless fantasy.

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Sailing

Hove to
Sure God to belly up
Taut lines shrieking
Nerves too
My lips shrill
Against the tumult’s rise
Yet I am whole
A man still
My last breath
Swept by this gale
Will warm the gentle gust
That interrupts your reverie.