Creekstone Press Publications
Excerpts from driftwood/Driftwood
Walking down stairs to the beach in August
You think it’s an owl perched on the hand rail
you’re about to grasp, feathers ruffled
in the sun-dappled afternoon.
Your brain creates meaning
out of a collection of lines and shadow, playing a trick
to remind you it’s all permeable.
The way the physical world of your body pulls you awake
when you’re trying to remember the dream
that slipped away before you could determine
what unsettled you so.
With some unconscious twist of an internal focusing ring
the bird becomes a fur hat complete with ear flaps.
You wonder who could have been cold enough
to wear such a thing. No sodden rescue
tossed up from between two logs wedged
below the tide line, it is clean and dry
awaiting a cool head. Someone coming in
from a long swim perhaps. Someone hunkering down
for an even longer night in the shelter of a blackberry cavern,
their sleep rich with the smell of over-ripe sun-dried berries and salt.
You reach out to take the hat.
You want those dreams for yourself.