Driftwood
Just like the driftwood of a dream
Left on the seashore of sleep
Just like the words that wouldn't rhyme
Lost in the desert of time
Time waits for no one at all
No, not even you
—The Moody Blues—
The course that brought this driftwood here has been long and twisted. Once, it stood strong among a family of trees. But as it aged, it was beaten by wind and storm, until the strain brought it down, broken, to the ground. Relentless, the waters pushed and battered it, sending it tumbling against rocks, catching and clinging for awhile, then torn loose again by the pounding water, until it was disgorged with the stream to lie here upon the shore.
The approaching season of holidays, once joyous with large family gatherings, now reminds me that time waits for no one at all. No, not even me. Stormwaters rise, pounding and tearing life into pieces that cannot be caught and held, but are torn loose and washed away. Broken fragments. Shards of the past.
Driftwood on the shore.