Driftwood

as I walk along the beach I smell the sweet salt air, I see
the scattered pieces of wood,
washed ashore after floating for years and years, as I
wander along I imagine that this
drift wood has floated for years upon years, maybe it
was a part of an old viking war
ship. Maybe this ship traveled here to America years
before Columbus. Maybe this ship
carried pirates, who attacked at sea. Robbing the rich
and condemning the poor. Maybe
this driftwood has floated from Africa, on an old ship
carrying slaves. Maybe this wood
was used as a weapon in a revolt, causing the ship to
sink. Maybe this wood is a piece
of a ship docked at Boston harbor during the tea party. A
piece of a crate broken open
by our people. Or maybe this wood simply fell off of a
barge, strolling to sea to dump it's
unwanted cargo. I like to think the last one is not true, I
want to think this wood led a
noble life. I like to think one day it was special. Now it is
just another piece of driftwood,
strewn along the beach for some tourist to take home. Or
some lifeguard to throw out.
No, Not this drift wood. This wood is returning to the
sea, to finish it's journey. Maybe
one day this wood will return to the beach again, with
more stories to tell. Or maybe it
will sink like the majestic ship I imagine it has come
from. So I bid it farewell and toss it
back out, to a sea full of wonders. And I wander on
down the beach, smelling the salt air,
feeling the water and sand slip thru my toes. I think once
again of my driftwood and
where it might go, I smile, and continue on my journey.