i feel like a stick—no a twig.
undeserving of attention,
unrelated to the oak any longer.
i've washed up like driftwood,
waiting for beauty to be unveiled in
the peaceful sands of time.
that i'll be anything more
than a broken branch in the dirt.
but i'll dream to reach the sky,
until i can feel the oxygen in my grooves,
for now, and until the ocean swipes me away.