The Driftwood

“…between water and rock…”

The driftwood

From broken bough has blown

Fallen, fallen, fallen down

Upon the wetted stone, the ground.

Rain and sun, snow and shade

Weathers its splinters

color knots a new shade.

From crevice it bades

Farewell to life

it once has known

Holding up sky

With leaves full grown.

The driftwood rides the rapids now

It crashes and dashes

Among rocks and prow.

The flooded waters haul it away

Sparing no mercy, the foam and the spray.

The driftwood tumbles and plays

Finding no purpose

No place to stay.

Until at last

The river coughs it up

And the driftwood lands

Between water and rock.

Until one day a passerby

Sees beauty and hopes

That planning and thought

Could make a shelf, or frame, or not.

Perhaps the driftwood remains

Discarded and lost, a stray

Waiting for some passerby

to pick it up

And give it hope,

To provide a purpose

Among sticks and boards

And mantel and bricks.

Among trusses and trellis

And windows and such,

Among ceilings and rafters

And chairs and canes,

Among stables and barns

And gardens and graves,

The driftwood waits..

This poem has been a thought in process for the last six months.

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