Driftwood

He, with his hands tied
Rode wind and set sail in afternoon
Taking pockets of sliced mountain
Running streams of chilled water

He, stuffed on wilderness
Carved animals faces
Knifing features into memory
Piecing together childhoods

He, once stood on street corners
Before resting his bones on limestone
Begging for view, splayed before him like a wife
On speckled sheets, threading silken legs of scenery

He, drawn to edges, laid his ashes
To be carried into horizon and sunset
To saturate earth like the breath of
Green pastures and liquid hills

He, drifted upon land
Unhinged
Untethered
Until he whittled himself into wind

 

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S. S. Hicks

 

 

Posted in: Poetry, The West, Uncategorized

Tagged as: ,

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14 thoughts on “Driftwood Leave a comment

  1. Seems like a long way from the beaten path to carve one’s name. Perhaps it didn’t matter to the carver, as long as *he* knew his appearance wasn’t a mere blip on earth’s timeline. Lovely piece of writing, DD!

  2. Each and every time
    Each and EVERY time
    EACH and every time
    Each and every TIME!
    you never cease to impress
    I love this: He, stuffed on wilderness
    Carved animals faces
    Knifing features into memory
    Piecing together childhoods

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