Love Note

Clouds crash and boil up
            at the foot of the mountains.
                        Bravely they bite back their cries.

Sanderlings at the beach
            hurry before rain comes,
                        and the tide on its way

to the moon claws at the sea-wall
            and pulls back the better shells,
                        those with the clouds still in them.

The piers of the dock have green beards.
            They are combing and combing
                        old messages from their hair.

I pry open the stoppered bottle
            looking for respite from
                        the incessant whimper of sea-girls

and the thrashing of whales
            who have lost their footing
                        and cannot return to dry land.

The words that fall out of the flask
            have been battered by weather
                        and abrasive repetitions.

I hold them up to the light.
            They are transparent like tears,
                        like rain on the shoulders of mountains.

Copyright © 2009 E.G. Burrows All rights reserved
from Southern Indiana Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission