Letters from the Far West
Speaking no one else's languages,
I float,
Listening to the padded tap of waves.
The shore is quiet,
Drying foam at the junction of the beach.
Sending cards and letters from the edge of the earth,
It seems like I am tossing pebbles,
Spiraling them them into this vast and blank, liquid face of nature,
and hoping the ripples will get to you.
And then, that you will find meaning in the bumps on the water.
But now the wind picks up,
and so the waves are being pushed back onto the sand.
April 2013
