I am a piece of driftwood:
smoothed, weathered, and grayed
by the complementary elements
of heat, cold, water, and time;
at times finding myself
hurled and at the complete mercy
of the frothing, angry sea,
churned by the tempests of life
like a football that is snatched
and sadistically tossed back and forth
over the head of a ninety pound weakling
in a mean-spirited game of keep-away
between two playground bullies;
yet I never sink nor drown;
but always indomitable,
awaken the morning after
to find myself
peacefully bobbing up and down
in still, glassy waters,
or safely washed ashore
on the sands of a desolate beachhead
from which human eyes
will never gaze wonderously
at a Divinely painted
sunrise or sunset gloriously blazing
in the distant horizon
where the sea kisses the sky
in the resplendent glory of heaven;
nor human footprints ever leave
even the slightest fleeting impression;
where the eternal, rhythmic ticking
of the surf licking and lapping the sand,
the gentle, soothing whisper
of the breeze fanning the lazy palm fronds,
the lonely cries of the hungry gulls,
and tickling of the sandcrabs
as they kick up sand
in their forage for food and shelter
beneath my underbelly,
are my faithful companions,
never interrupting,
never judging,
but always allowing me
the courtesy of dialoguing with myself
and taking solace in the ever-flowing
rivers of my consciousness,
eternally fed by fresh waters
bubbling to the surface
from somewhere deep within
the cavernous wellspring of my spirit.