A Poem a Day (581): Drift

 
Drift
 
Driftwood,
the ebb and the flow and the flood,
where breath comes to stop and start,
and here we are, treading water,
adrift in the darkest ocean currents
tugging us outwards, every which way,
our lucid dreams, our raw necessities,
and how we would if we only could.
 
Driftwood,
how we see ourselves in our built reality,
requiring a map to find where we are,
the need to be and the need to be of,
and the constant doubt inside,
adapting to the push and pull of life,
this wash of minutes, hours, days,
the inability to press on Pause.
 
Driftwood,
where we meander in our wanderings,
our musings under a rain of trees,
their wild leaf hair trickling all around us,
like a verdant shield of purest light,
so we can try to live without thorns,
the constant rub of something wrong,
a hole in the heart of our being.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, May 10, 2023