The Bottled Message
The hue of the sun was sweet, round, reddish-yellow citrus orange,
Light was illuminating in scattered patterns throughout the pines and willows of the
park.
The sunset traveling deep into the brown irises' core--
The plump child's fingers intertwined with her mother's hand;
Life consisted of butterflies and undisturbed reality . . .
The flowing stream and wooden bridge circling the park in San Diego,
Water-- how mystifying and powerful to a small girl with a smile,
She had created a message. Her message. Her art. Her scrawled piece of work.
The abstract scrap was rolled into a glass bottle--
The stream seemed to pass in a circular pattern . . .
The mother placidly lifted the shiny bottled and motioned her to drop it--
Reluctant to have her message released,
To be discovered. Her first secret.
"Let go. Let someone else look upon your message someday."
The girl let go.
She watched the bottle flow away into the orange hue . . .
The girl wanted it to come back;
Perhaps, just maybe, the river was circular.
A river with no displacement--
IT wasn't the distance the message traveled that mattered;
Inside of the young girl, it was the motion that kept her heart moving . . .
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