By David De Jong
Upon the mantle lies a secluded log.
A fair arm’s length long, smooth, with dog legged ends.
Veins of grey, knots of black, with the feel of silk.
It is the trophy of an old memory.
A young boy on the shore of Superior.
Thirteen in years, wise in his own, selfish mind.
Stuck, vacationing with parents much too dull.
They stopped for lunch and dined on smoked fish and bread.
A savored treat, fresh from the shoreline smoke house,
Wrapped up still warm, with care, in yesterday’s news.
They walked the shoreline to see what could be found;
Stones for skipping on an endless bed of glass,
Driftwood pieces, perhaps from the other side.
One stood out in stature and fit the hand well,
Somewhat wet, as just released from its maker.
Mother, felt it required to take pictures.
Arrogance, distanced his stance from his father
A father, that saved lives in the holocaust,
Smuggling souls through the Netherlands country.
A father, that made a house home, bare handed,
Toiling after work, in the dark, brick by brick.
A father that was proud of his son despite
His son’s thoughts; he was better, smarter, wiser.
That piece of wood, lays dormant but ages on
Its ambiance of grey and silver shows well.
Like the greys of regret in reflection’s view.
I know the boy, grown and aged past his father,
Would longingly return to that place and time,
Shed his ignorance, his arrogance, embrace
Love that was there, but he was too wise to see.
That small photo next to the wood reminds him;
Every moment in life is a gift, share it,
Use them all wisely, with grace and thanksgiving,
Lest that moment become driftwood on your shore
Tossed by the storm, searching for the next wave, home