A poem is like a rescue note
Scribbled on scraps and sealed,
Then locked in time’s sand worn bottle
And cast beneath the stars
To ride Heaven’s tides in hopes of finding life.
O Wind set my crafting a ship
In search of other ears,
To let someone know
That here I hear,
That on this little stranded spot
There stands another man
In like search for hearts
That long for life’s sure center and clear edges.
But how, how?
If I know not my own bearings and longitude,
If latitude escapes me,
How could they find me,
Return my call?
Would they seek me out?
Could they return on the tide,
Read the Wind’s former roads of yesterday,
To wander backward to where my hand penned its plea
And set a bobbing my sealed craft upon the sea?
My best hope:
My words will find their voice,
Will quicken hearts and minds,
That my life will touch someone’s life—
And each will think and some will say:
‘See, I am not alone in this place.
There are two of us, at least,
Who think this way.’
Elliott Tepper 2010