Me Like Driftwood
There are red-wings on the cattails,
loons calling on the lake,
reeds swaying with the breeze.
I see the feathered wing
and the seeds.
I hear the haunting call,
the echo,
the plaintiff reminder.
I feel the breeze,
sometimes gently,
sometimes fierce.
There is a pain in my heart,
memories I feel:
those days,
those impressed moments,
the sinking stone,
me like driftwood
cast casually
upon the shore of the world.
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