Roundel on a Piece of Driftwood Our lives are told in the run of ebb and flow, keen edge and dull, sharp summer shade, blunt winter cold, of light and dark, laid down inside us. And so our lives are told as this driftwood’s is, its story clear. Old seasons there—soft spring-wood hollowed, worn down low, fall-into-winter thinner, tougher, bold as sinews flexed for a harder striving. That slow hard-going stiffened, braced it—saved it—left shore-shoaled and stranded. We have seasons yet, but know our lives are told. Graham Walker
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