A Scratchy Message

I got a message

On bright white

Paper.

The words were clear

But the message muddied up my

Eyes as though the

Sound of the pencil

Scratching across 

My monkey mind’s ears

Held the wrong colors,

Or hadn’t been sharpened by

Rocks falling into cold streams;

That’s okay, they’ll

Be rounded, if not soft,

In a few decades.