Flotsam

image by glenn buttkus.

Flotsam

“Our language is a mighty river, picking up silt and

flotsam here and discarding it there; but growing

wider and richer.”--Robert MacNeil.

The beaches along the coast

    of Washington State are never

        littered with beautiful and exotic

             shells, but we do get some cool flotsam--

        pieces of rope and torn nets, and

     colorful styrofoam fishing floats,

bouquets of bird feathers,

clam and crab shells after

they’ve been picked over

by gulls and crows--

                     but mostly driftwood, some entire

                     trees, their roots splayed like squid

                     tentacles. I am attracted

to the smaller pieces,

the chips and broken tips.

Upon closer inspection,

each piece turns out 

to be a tiny work of art,

a unique sculpture

fashioned by finger waves

and the stress of the journey.

We seem to be in the Japanese current.

After their tsunami, I found

                               pink tennis shoes,

                               strange children’s toys,

                               and Asian golf balls.

The piece I took with me

was left out on the deck

until it completely dried out;

then it resembled

           a rattlesnake head ready to bite.

           or a capital A running from something,

           or a sea eel coming out of a coral reef.

You know it may have been

                           part of a house,

                      or a piece off some furniture,

                  or the hilt of a Kendo sword,

             or a chunk from a girl’s hope chest

          or the middle of a baseball bat

  or a slat from a suburban picket fence.

It rests on an oak shelf inside now. When I pass

it I often pick it up, rub it, staring at it, marveling

at its rough-hewn beauty. Then I return it to its

repose. After its long journey, it seems happy

in its new home.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub