message no bottle

hand on my chin, gazing through the window pane

a letter by hand, quill dipped in ink

envelope, delivered via horse

this house to that

pen becomes a throwaway,

then, type written ,  i grew up that way

with letters sped away by aero plane

changes as with spelling

now about to skype call far

face to face we see and chat

imagine that.  we again seem near,

by extension it seems there is  here.

some day you’ll walk through the gate

and be there.

i imagine grandma will be able

to bring some cookies along.