The Tide
It was a tree.
It was solid,
And maybe it had something of a strength
And presence,
But when its momentary existence was drowned,
The tide turned it to clay
And took it back to the center of the world.
Whatever that tree was,
It was,
Until the tide came.
Always the tide comes.
I laughed,
And I wrote my name in wet sand.
In moments,
It was taken,
Washed away,
The indifferent sand bared for something else.
I made a deeper impression,
And it just took longer.
I am like that tree,
And the tide comes.
It always comes.
