The Message
On quiet spring twilights—no sun or wind or rain—
you can sit on the grassy shore inches from the sandy
edges of water with its lyre-shaped rocks & hear
the pluck of duck feet paddling just under
the surface.
You can see the clouds sail, skimming oaks’ shaggy
tops, clearing distant hills like reefs, loosely anchored
by a lighthouse moon.
You can sense stars’ light vibrating through a deep
black to the lavender-blue sky, finally to breach waves,
pages that rest on your lap.
You will look down, pen in hand, feel its length
like an oar between your fingers, smell its ink as it gushes
your words
& you realize that you are the message in the bottle
nestled with a quarter moon lighting the smooth interior
the color of granny smith apples & grass & glazed
like a mallard’s neck barnacled
with emeralds
that you bob & drift, one day to unfold
& sing yourself aloud, the cantor
for your own buoyant truth.
~inspired by Christian Schloe’s “Journey around the World”
