Messages

What do we do with them?

 
On a long, forgotten dirt road 
a red mailbox waits 
with its tongue out.

One day, out of a cloud of dust
A faded blue pickup 
speeds by unloosing 

a fistful of notices. Invitations.
They flap up in the wind 
like evening birds.

What do we do with them?

Then there is the pebble
with the beautiful pattern 
right in your hand on the beach

You see it, love it, intuit
its secret. Gazing into it
you may find it reminds you

of the mind of being itself
or you feel yourself looking 
into the eye of the architect of life.

Light fades. You say,
You must be going. You stash
the pebble in your pocket. 

There it languishes
like all the other messages
Into silence. 

I wonder.
Do the stars get tired
of telling us how to wake up?