Driftwood
The stream surges in turbulent torrent
the dry tree felled by the summer storm,
the truncated trunk anchors at the tilted levee,
in the web of boulders it sticks, stranded.
The flood slackens the grip of the slope,
the log begins a new journey
to the remote end the stream ordains,
the abandoned attachment it forgets, dislocated.
My life uprooted by the squall of strife,
drifts like the log, finds no holding ledge,
seeks to find the free course to the ultimate,
the notion of bonding I don’t sense, unpossessed.
The tide of time takes me to the strange shore,
in the alien mooring I linger awhile,
where people see me as a vagrant driftwood,
an artifact of frozen mind, fossilized.
______________
March 10, 2023
For Brian Strand Premier No 1196 Contest
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