The driftwood,
Long traveller at sea voyage's grace,
Relief of tired migrant feet,
Upon waves at call of storm and calm,
Etched and smoothed in time clocks cannot measure,
Yet in the surety of eroding brine,
Comes as treasure of earth and sea.
A million brown hues marry together in the driftwood, thus conjuring it so heavenly to the eye.
The driftwood, this ever free traveller of of the wide blue, meets my hand as if we are old friends, as if in another lifetime our matter was woven as one.
What was once one of the fishing fleet had become driftwood. This wood was beautiful at every stage of its life and perhaps one day its matter would again become part of a tree.
On the pebbles was driftwood, wet like the stones. Inga held it in her hands, poking a finger though where an eye had been, and the holding it up for the light shine through.
After so much time in the sun, the driftwood was almost as pale as the sand. The ocean had taken care of the softest wood, gently carving it as only water can do. The eyes that had once sat in the wood were raised arching curves that reflected the swirling of the water so close by.
Fran picked up the driftwood, turning it over and over in her hands, surprised by how light it was. The August sun had baked it to such a pale hue, the only darker parts being the grooves that ran like swirls of shade. She ran her fingers over it, tracing the texture, making a memory to last as if it were a treasured photograph.
The driftwood ridges eddy and swirl like the cream in my morning coffee. It is a sculpture carved by the ocean and deposited on the sand. Back in my metropolis apartment it will be surrounded by white seashells. Every time it catches my eye I will hear the sea and feel the sand that is coating my toes; and for that moment I will here again, home.
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