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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