Treasure

Tessa.

About your birthday bike.

Pink.

Pinker than a conch shell?

And the helmet is purple.

As purple as an eggplant?

I see you

pedaling pondward on pinwheels

to companion with mallards

as they bob and splash

around the echoing gazebo,

there to picnic

among dandelions and dragonflies

and with a smile

to read once again

the map

you found folded

flatter than a gold doubloon

in a knothole

under the bench.

Be mindful,

Tess,

of those sentinels of sunken silver,

the silent carp,

as they nibble the orts

of your peanut-butter sandwich

and wave with their fins.

Perhaps they are pointing.