by Clare McTighe

The rolled, fraying paper
barely fit into the bottle.
A thin layer of morning fog
glass water like a blanket,
so still, that for a moment
I thought it would shatter.
The sun, just waking up,
stretched its arms
over the orange and pink
I closed my eyes
and let the salty wind
hug me,
goose bumps rising across my arms.
The ocean’s curled hand beckoned me,
its tiny waves hungry
for the bottle.
I put it into the air,
imaginary wings carrying it higher and higher
until finally, it
and bobbed toward
some mysterious beach,
in some mysterious country,
where maybe,
just maybe,
a stranger would pick it up and read it.

Glass Water

Leave a Reply