Breathe In, Breathe Out, Breathe Deeply

Sometimes I wish my breath could be capped
in an empty glass bottle,
tied with a pink ribbon,
and cast off into the ocean.
Bobbing on the crests, dipping under peaks.
Just floating.
Minding its own business until a fisherman
from Greenland scoops it into his net.
Then the bottle is his responsibility. 

Carefully, his worn fingers pop off the cork,
rubbing the glass bottle with his elbow.
But it's too late.
He uncaps the breath tied with a pink ribbon,
sailing in salt for months.
Once the breath escapes it finds me.
Things have a way of getting back
to me.

I've been holding onto my own glass bottle,
blowing in tufts of breath
to tuck away for a time
when I can open it and understand what it all means.

What do they mean?
Greenland, tell me.