And the driftwood gathers and waits for someone to notice it.
How long it waits, who can say?
But then someone does.
And that someone puts the pieces together like a puzzle.
And what was once a lonely stick becomes a home
Until it doesn’t.
That someone leaves after a while for whatever reason
And another someone comes.
Maybe they see a haven,
Or maybe just wood
Or doesn’t even notice at all.
Yet the driftwood remains and holds tightly to its precious secret… It is all these things and none of them.
Everything but nothing
The fuel and the fire
The home and the inhabitants
The tree and the fallen limb
Until it too forgets and returns to the sea
Which runs to the river
And waters the field
Which births a tree
From which another piece of wood falls from and then it drifts off too
And it gathers and waits for someone to notice it.
How long will it wait?
Who can say?