driftwood

30 July 2013

driftwood

 

I observed, as young and old alike,

combed the beach and high tide line

for Poseidon’s priceless baubles, or

more likely, man’s discarded detritus.

 

I noticed in passing, the everpresent

exhibitionist glee, thoroughly disguised

of course, of sun-worshippers, bronzed

mannequins on display.

 

Seagulls swooped and performed admirably,

delighting some, annoying others with their

insatiable appetites and selfishness, fighting

with raucous abandon for that next

potato chip, or other scrap of human excess.

 

Farther down, where the sand transitioned

into jutting rocks, I chased preening seagulls

to flight and discovered a blanched and

distorted piece of driftwood, finally come

to rest between the rocks.

I sat beside it, felt its unnatural smoothness,

worn by wind and wave, sculpted into

an almost unrecognizable remnant of

what it used to be.

 

We are kindred spirits, you and I,

I gently whispered to it, realizing how

my own raw texture and twisting,

turning form had been similarly smoothed

by life.

 

And I wondered how far I would

have to drift before I too might finally escape

the incessant tides and come to rest,

wedged between two rocks on some

distant shore, waiting to be discovered.

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