You have bobbed up into my arms
little jetsam, shipwrecked on my shore
though not, perhaps, from choice,
comfortable as you were
berthed in your mother's waters.
This island is not best traversed alone.
Learning the paths which lead you to the safest fruit
takes time. My map is worn
but I will help you draw your own.
Who knows where you'll find fire.
I offer up a leaf against the storm,
an arm against the rocks and cliffs. Soon
you will take directions that my compass doesn't know.
Build huts. Bewaring others of the monsters.
Tides ebb and flow. The tricks of tracking,
killing, are hard learned. Hunger adds edge.
Bottles are filled with messages written
in a language you begin to understand.
With the moon's help you light a fire,
attracting ships that pass. Several change course
though few come close for fear of rocks.
Rescue is never quick.
For now, I'll sit beneath this palm,
both practice and teach semaphore.
One day you'll run along this beach
to tell me you have found a boat
just big enough for one, lodged in a bay.
