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 Message in a Bottle 

Dripping with my truth,

the pen transcribes 

a message 

onto  crisp  paper.

In  a cursive  

awkwardly mastered,    

loops and twists 

scratch out  the  first 

of the inadequate words :

"Dear Reader..."

I  know not who this reader is

that I write this message for....

it matters not

to the being 

doing the  dictating.

Lost in the call, 

with little to no

thought of outcome,

I bleed out my learning,

my life, 

teaching, writing, sharing

until my hand is tired

and the loops and twists, 

despite their longing 

to be eloquent, 

 become exhausted 

broken symbols

that are difficult,

 to decipher. 

The message,

I must trust,

transcends the scribbling

in its clarity,

extending beyond 

the  mere page

with little help 

from "me".

Done,

 I sign a name,

comfortably  heavy 

in its obscurity, 

before  lifting 

the now inkless pen

from that which 

it so lovingly

 made contact with 

only a moment before.

I roll the paper, 

and this truth it carries, 

ceremoniously, 

 into a tight little cylinder 

before stuffing it,

into the narrow opening

of the somewhat resistant

glass bottle I have selected. 

I seal it in preparation

for its journey.

Standing on the shore line 

of eternity

I close my weary eyes 

and with breath sucked in

I swing my arm back,

 then  forward 

and with  quiet  reluctance

I  let go.

This 

message in a bottle

is pulled up and away 

from my  grasp, 

released  into 

the ocean's waiting arms.

When I feel

 the cool splash 

of its departure

on my satisfied skin, 

I know

my job is done.

What happens to those

scribbled words

 is now

out of my hands.

I may never know

where this message 

will end up. 

The waves of Life,

not me,  

will decide its fate.

Maybe,

its destiny will be forever

entwined with the ocean's,

bobbing up and down

with every crest 

and trough ,

beneath eternity's 

endless skies.

Or maybe...

 it will be guided 

by  fate's tides

 to some 

distant sandy  shore  

where it will be pulled

onto the beach

to lay quietly, 

collecting  the suns rays,

glistening  in the spectrum 

of its color, 

until it is noticed. 

Maybe ....

a passerby, 

attracted to the 

reflection of light 

coming from this 

well travelled glass container,

 will bend to pick it up.

Maybe,

 the bottle will be unsealed 

by these same curious, 

serendipity -trusting fingers,

and the paper pulled out.

Maybe....

what I have written

will be read

and maybe ....

it will be received 

with

openness and awe

while the reader gains 

even just a speck

of wisdom

from the life lessons 

I have painstakingly transcribed.

Or maybe...

 the message will lay

where it has landed,

unnoticed and unread

forever.,

And , with no eulogy or epitaph

to lift it from insignificance,

slowly buried

beneath the wind blown sands 

 it  is resting on.

I do not know where 

this message in a bottle 

will end up

or if and how

it may be received. 

That is not mine to  know.

I did what I was here to do,

I wrote

and I  let go.

I release  that 

which was never mine

back to the Source 

from which it came.

© Dale-Lynn, May, 2023