Driftwood
What you
see is you and me,
we rest
against this bark, this sea,
misted ocean
currents drifting.
Are we
shells of ourselves?
Where the
sea kisses the sand
we’ll stand
beneath the gulls
that surf the
air’s sacred currents,
dropping to
just above our heads.
Their shrill
laughter breaks the roar
of waves
breathing in, breathing out.
A short-circuit
in the morning’s still,
this
freedom splitting day.
We are the
crabs circling mud trails,
building ridges
around their travails,
not getting
so far for all their efforts,
out of sync
with the space covered.
The tide tugs
us all out, shells et al,
pulling us driftwood
towards the line,
reflections
of the sun skewed,
this horizontal
expanse of eternity.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, November 5, 2020
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