Becoming Driftwood

It is not the worst thing, to drift,
to wash and wash away with the tides,
decorate (or litter!) an empty beach for a time,
before the moon exercises her pull
and the seas rise and take you away.

There’s no pressure in it. No stress
except for the vague notion
you should be more assertive;
you should make claims on the intangibles
such as direction or speed or
destination.

It is not the worst thing to drift.
There is no failure or fretting
about right or wrong decisions,
or what others think. The truth is
most do not think of you at all
while you flow under the surface,

There are no standards to meet.
In time, your sharp edges soften.
Even locust wood loses its bark and thorns,
becomes smooth, a work of art
despite yourself.

About this poem

I am sure I am not the only one who, from time to time, thinks about cutting the bindings that hold us to a place. I am sure I am not the only one who at times feels like they are running their own lives and at times feels like life is running them.

Or a poem about driftwood.

The photograph was taken at Race Point on Cape Cod.

Be well. Travel (Drift) wisely,

Tom