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terryp

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2011-09-12-7:40 a.m.

Driftwood


If only I could be washed hard
Over and over
With the ebb and flow
Against that rock edge there
And feel the jagged end of
A rib
Pierce a vital organ.
Blood would flow freely and
Finally
Reflect something real.
But there is no hard edge
Only sand
Where I am deposited
Salt water taking flesh
Molecule by molecule
For thousands of years
Like a piece of a tree
Which has had the misfortune of
Falling into the sea
and one day will
Hold a plexiglass tabletop
Allowing one to gawk at the
Twisted smoothness
And
Places where knots used to be.

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