Driftwood

It lies on the shore,
heavy and hewn,
its edges still sharp,
not yet worn soft by its journey.

Not here last night,
it is driftwood,
sunbleached and grey,
waiting for the next high tide to sweep it away.

You sit on the sand next to it
and stare out to sea,
a comfortable silence holding vigil
with a kindred soul.

About this poem

God may have a plan for me. I’m just not in on it yet. I suspect that is part of the plan.

Tom