His winds devastated both coasts of Florida.

His rain and storm surge left 10 dead

floating in his wake.

Some who chose to “tough it out”

but lost

and some who were just chosen for him to take.

But now he is far off in the Eastern Atlantic

and diminished in intensity enough

to be named a mere

Tropical Storm.

What a degrading come down!

Now our mammoth cruise ship heads north,

back to Charleston after a week

of hide and seek

with the hurricane around the Bahamas…

I sit, comfortable on the state-room-balcony

seven stories above the sea, safe,

watching little ripples far below,

rolling in from some lair out there, somewhere.

The sun glints off the white salt spray

and feeding flocks of gannet and shearwater

dive for their noon meal of shinning sashimi

stunned by our bow wave.

Schools of fish float, dizzy on the crests

waiting to be supper,

swallowed in an equally embarrassing diminishment

as was Miltons.

But!

Every once in a while, in a set of waves,

an angry roller catches the ships bow

just off her starboard quarter!

The ship rises above the horizon,

then crashes down into a trough,

the keel and ship shaking,

passengers banging onto passageway walls,

calls for help!

The white, salty foam so thick

I swear I could kneel to pray on it

if I were tossed off!

“Man Over Board!”

And then I hear a snicker,

from far off.

In the settling sea around me,

Milton sends his sly reminder.

“Avast there, Matey!

There be more siblings left in Mothers breaths!

Clutch those railings tight, Ye lubber!

We’ll be back!’

(And I believe!)