~ The Poet's Place Cafe~

Driftwood

A quiet stone rests in the river’s palm—
Water moves around, reshaping memory.

The sun catches pale bark, silent in the stream,
Trespassing gently where currents never ask.

Stillness, softened by a thousand eddies,
Turns—like driftwood—toward a distant shore.

What’s meant is rarely spoken outright—
Only the river knows what the stone endures.