Saturday, June 13, 2015

Pitched bottles


Pitched bottles                                                                                          

I’m running low on ink, pen,
stationary, bottles and cork,

the Milky Way moving above me
like a vast blue sea, tides

and currents sweeping away
my inquiries never to return.

Sitting on a rough beach
I seldom pace anymore,

but often soil my knees with prayer,
wondering increasingly

if the shell of sky and ocean
somehow forms the answer –

me without ears to hear, held up too small
and distant against the eternal,

not a climbing path anywhere
among the flying stars and heaving waves,

these pitched bottles merely
a poor substitute for drowning.

O child of God, facing sea and skyward
distracts you from your inherent solitude.

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