Around the harbor of

the small sea village,

children read bedtime stories

of messages sent by birds,

through the grapevine,

left in the voices of frogs

whose croak croak doesn't

sound very princely.

Stories are built into the trees

and mortar of kingdoms,

whispered legends

binding with faith.

In the morning,

some run to the water's edge

thinking of the stories they liked most,

messages in bottles sent from shipwrecks,

islands, from the loneliest people.

They fold their scribbled stories

into boats and set them

adrift on the tides,

sure they have

simplified:

bearing words

on boats, themselves,

instead of encased in glass.