The speaker looks back on a kind of self-preservation that has gone oddly wrong. Part of them has been "saved in ash," which is a strange place to keep anything: ash is what remains after something has burned. The speaker links this to a wish and a river, as if what survives is both a hope and something that keeps moving away.
The second stanza turns toward small, dreamlike acts: visiting ships, writing to a rose. These feel tender but impossible, the kind of gestures that suggest longing for travel, beauty, or connection. The title, "Someday writer," fits this. It hints at someone who keeps putting writing off.
The last lines name what may be holding them back: a "punishing scruple," a harsh inner conscience that feels like "a home of ice." It is a place to live, but a cold one. The mood is wistful and quietly frustrated, with imagination pulling one way and self-doubt pulling the other.