O, Shaker of the Earth, have you
stolen my scribblings? I have spilled
the secrets of my heart into these
tumbled waters; is there a reason
they have not yet reached my love?
Such things cannot stay bottled,
you know. That eraser dust moon
will pull them to shore one morn,
shattered so by your cantankerous
storms. And if these inky wonderings
bleed to sea, someday my love will
scoop these broken pieces of me, run
a quiet thumb over wave-smoothed
glass, catch a glint of sun, and see.
PAD, day 25.