Poem to be sent to sea in a bottle

Maury would know what pathways of the ocean this might take from the ebb tide at Kiptopeke, but only you can tell if it swings into currents and is swept between these headlands out to open sea or if it simply comes back on the tide with cork and orange peels and jingle shells that dry to a lemon shimmer on the beach.

If it should be delivered to your feet, beachwalker, casual seeker after the unexpected at the changing, changeless tide line where wind and water weave their tangled impedimenta from old rusting ships, dead shells and many picnics, take it, beachwalker, from its glass envelope among scallop shells and bright wet pebbles. Write me a letter.