12/06/2025
’Twas the night before Cranberry Cup, and across the cold bay,
Not a sail stirred the darkness, not a ripple gave way.
The winter sailboats rested, all snug at their docks,
While snowflakes tapped gently on hulls and on blocks.
The moon cast a shimmer on water turned steel,
And the ice creaked so softly it scarcely seemed real.
The racers lay dreaming of wind fair and right,
For tomorrow’s regatta would dawn with first light.
Their foul-weather gear had been hung up with care,
In hopes that the North Wind soon would be there.
And I with my shovel, still brushing off snow,
Had just cleared the pathways where sailors would go.
When out on the harbor there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the boathouse to see what was the matter.
Away to the jetty I flew like a spark,
My boots crunching ice in the shimmering dark.
The moon on the snow and the frost on each sheet
Made the whole world around me both glitter and greet;
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a fleet of small sailboats, their shadows so near.
Tomorrow they’d dance on the wind’s frosty breath,
Racing for glory, for bragging rights, for depth—
For courage in cold, for the thrill of the chase,
For the CranBerry Cup and its proud winter grace.
So I whispered goodnight to the masts standing tall,
To the snow-covered decks and the sailors and all.
Then I smiled at the harbor, serene and moonbright:
“Happy racing to all, and to all a crisp night!”
