My Vagabond Drifting Wood
A tree in the hills felled by the summer storm
river in spate carries from cascade to cascade.
Deskinned trunk haltingly moves to the bank,
sticks in mud and boulder the water deposits.
Next rains come, the river sweeps the banks.
The log floats in delight, starts to travel again,
likes to reach adrift the destination unknown.
Unanchored, it doesn’t know what the past is.
My life uprooted by the squall of rough times
drifts like a floating log, finds no hands to hold,
seeks new course for an uncertain end to reach.
Unpossessed, I don’t know what attachment is.
I float on freedom, time takes me in its course,
I make my mooring, hold on as long as I want.
People say I am a vagabond, a fallen drift wood.
Unbound, I’m glad, my memory has no memory.
September 24, 2017.
Contest : Form V - Verse Me a Poem.
Sponsor : Broken Wings.
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