A log rolls away from the rest.

Away from the cabin,

away from laughter, smiles, and simplicity.

It falls to the ocean and floats away.

Some days tossed by storm,

some days carried by the breeze.

Always lost, always searching.

Salt eats at the wood like

ravenous termites, until

it's broken piece by piece.

Always drifting with no direction.

And when it finally feels sand between

rough edges and smooth bark,

The lonely log stares at the beach

bewildered. Never knowing how

it came to be there.