A tiny ship alone on a shelf finds itself
once again born from shadow’s
memory of a time where his hands
longed to reach up hold this miracle
a ship in a bottle forever encased
with masts raised in the night
under a dusty desk lamp.
Rough hands made tender by delicate
placements in glass.
On the floor with clunky wood trucks
and trains he was silenced
by the weight of the moment
when masts were raised
gently tugged by a thread
between thick fingers.
Then slowly the ship set sail
in his imagination
and in his hands now rests.
Hands smooth and used to
keeping books, not sails and ropes
and nets, holds this treasure.
The sun begins to move up. Within
that tiny glass bottle his heart rides
the waves, feels the wind
knows him who now sails the seas
outside time and memory. Stares into
early morning rays. Remembers
harrowing tales of ghost ships
and crushed limbs. Becomes
lost in the swells lit with the light
returning to the dark ocean waters
shining on the early morning calm
bringing him back from the storm.
© 2012 Joanne Elliott