Morning tip-toed coldly by and saw you

lonely, carefree, wandering along the shore,

curling your toes against sand’s suck

and shell spike, gazing at the sea’s grey frown,

pleadingly.

Then….

lying on its side, bleached by the sun’s haze

you saw it, half-submerged and you stopped

and stooped to lift it:

Driftwood.

And with the memory of a primeval passion

you held its form against your face

and prayed you had not come too late.

No stir of former life; arboreal strife,

and you could sense the waste, regret the

stark honesty and vain isolation of its ending

and wonder bleakly why, wave-warped,

it had weathered, whittled by time’s tide.

You yearned to give it definition, meaning,

but, expressionless, it gave no hint of past

purpose, only present passivity, future nothingness.

And so you grasped it firmly, in strong hands,

and vainly tried to make it matter to itself.

Then you, the master craftsman, begged the chance

to carve it into myriad shapes of fancy;

alter its form; remould its texture,

to shape it to suit your psychedelic whim;

to use its energy to kindle you some warmth,

or hurl it savagely against the killer of your joys.

You even thought to break it in one move across your knee.

You held it, petrified.

I am that driftwood

That bobbed and sank on tides of chance,

floating past your eyes quite unaware

of your creative impulse, all unprepared

for your firm grasp and practised kiss of life

that falsely offered buoyancy and freedom.

Give me the time to settle on the shore.

Give me the space to rest there, unopposed.

Give me the peace to splinter with old age.

Or fling me back and let me drown again.

updated by @americymru: 11/24/16 05:57:05PM