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.
