Driftwood, by Tricia Knoll
A June storm wet the driftwood last night.
Sand runnels texture the beach carpet
beneath a gallery of leg bones and dragons
summer bonfires have not yet blemished.
Tides, wind and waves
sand down woods to equal relics.
Wind-gnarled trunks and limbs
thrown up silver in salt
roll like slain dragons and griffons.
Imploring root wad fingers
spike up, one skeleton clutches
a boulder to the last touchdown.
I am small, untraveled, foot-bound
where surf flings these forward,
this feeble fence on a slumming dune
which may last one season.
What is big now will be small or gone.
Tourist tribes burn their fires.
Wind carves. Sand blasts.
Waves rearrange. The ocean knows
its rules and its woods.