bottles |
|
Farewell to the bottles! |
I have celebrated their contents, |
then filled them with messages |
releasing them slowly |
on wild current promises, |
imagined their travels, |
feared for those shattered, |
dreaded those found, |
more. |
|
At their conception, |
I've followed orderly shelf-rows |
guessing their contents, |
sneering I could see through them. |
They weren't deep, |
their only claim to profoundness |
their origin: Like earth, beginning in fire, |
an expanding sphere, reflecting its maker, |
horribly glorious in its flow, |
endlessly patient in being formed. |
|
A bottle flows to my feet: |
Filled with enough hope |
or imagination it is, precariously, |
up to its neck in water. |
Once I was filled with spirit, |
but drunk with my own power, |
I consumed myself. |
My emptiness now |
has made me more transparent, I think. |
|
© Jon Bohrn (2000) |