Driftwood
cast upon the shore,
deposited here so long ago,
halfway covered in sand,
waiting,
watching,
as the Tide approaches,
swallows land,
drowning me
unwillingly
consumed by the waves
of time.
“I did not ask,
I did not wish to be here.
I stood tall
once,
but that was long ago.
My brothers,
sisters,
they are lost to me,
elsewhere,
likely as I upon this beach.
Does the crush of Tide
fill their porous souls,
waterlogged, lonely, alone?
Are our fates
entwined?
Though distant,
do they think of me?
Miss me,
as I do them?
“Oh great thief!
Why must you steal me
from the air,
from the sun,
bury me
as a pirate does his treasure?
I am no treasure to you.
You are no friend to me.
Why suffocate me
with your wet blanket?
This is a sailor’s grave,
not mine.”
The Tide,
hesitant,
inevitable,
devouring the coast,
relinquishing control,
falling away only to return.
I did not choose kismet.
This is my charge,
willing or no,
I carry on.
I have nothing aside from this.
Nothing more,
nothing less,
to do.
“Do not blame me;
do not think me a monster.
I am no monster.
I am nothing at all.
A pawn,
a tool,
a toy for the amusement of another:
the Moon.
She commands,
I obey.
It is not for me to argue,
to disagree.
I am the called,
no call do I make.
“I am subject
to lunar whims
and celestial whimsy.
Would that I could
spare you.
I would spare us both.
Do not think
I am your enemy.
I am not,
nor am I a friend.
I am not my own.
I choose nothing,
no friends, foes.
I am neither lost nor found.
I can do nothing
to save you.
Poor soul,
it is the Moon you fear,
not I.”
The Moon,
tossed about.
Earth is a child
juggling a single ball.
Orbital holding patterns,
unbreakable.
Was I ever free?
If so,
I do not remember.
I mark time
for others;
little changes
for me.
“It is not I
who is in control.
I do not wish to command the Tide.
I do not hope
to color the trees
with the palette of autumn,
cause leaves to fall,
snow to drift,
nights to pass.
I am no god to werewolves.
I have no thought for lovers.
Calendars mean nothing
to me.
“Though immortal
I seem,
though I reach back
into the furthest recesses
of memory,
I feel less divine,
more human
than even the most trivial
of bipeds.
It is not I
but Earth our mother
who bears this guilt.
She,
and not I.”
Earth,
mother of all
living things
heretofore known,
many unknown,
alone in the Cosmos
with only my children
to bear witness
to my wonders,
my weakness.
“How is it
that I am to blame
for Sisyphus the Moon?
For the inhale and exhale of Tide?
For the watery dissolution
of Driftwood
cast ashore,
run aground,
buried in sand,
overcome
with ocean?
“How is it
that you believe I would harm
my children?
What would I be
without them?
A desolate rock,
a void,
lifeless and solemn
as Mars.
This is hell
for me,
not you only.
Cast not your judgment
upon my deeds,
or misdeeds,
whether truly mine or no.
I am guiltless.
Behold! the Sun.
I am trapped
as you, oh Moon.
The years pass
at his beck and call.
Our age
can be marked
only by the elliptic dance
he demands.
He is the master of all calamity.
It is his doing,
not mine.”
The Sun,
solar commander,
kingpin of planets,
relentless flame,
burning all that comes near
and some that stays far.
I provide light,
warmth,
stasis.
None live
save by my grace.
“It saddens me
to hear
such disregard for the good
I create.
Ancient mother of life,
what were you
ere I pulled you in?
How alive were you
prior to the prison
you seem to believe
I have fashioned
out of spite
or villainy?
The life you boast,
your children,
as you call them,
does not exist
apart from me.
“And you,
oh my lunar sister,
what dark orb would you be
were not my light
available for you
to reflect?
Lonely asteroid,
none would see you.
But for me
you would be truly lost,
forgotten,
unknown.
You are found
because I find you.
Tide and season
exist at your behest
just as you and Mother Earth
live
and are together
at mine.”
The Cosmos,
unknowable
in breadth and depth,
infinite, perhaps,
imperceptibly massive
at the least,
absurd to small minds.
Nothing exists outside me,
nothing within me matters
more than anything else.
The numbers of my age,
my residents,
are far from understanding.
“I would laugh,
but that would imply I hear
your complaints.
I would try to comfort,
but that would imply I care.
Who
but the nihilist
knows the truth?
Infinitesimal
is too large a word
for what you are
to me.
“Nothing I do
is for you;
nothing I am
means anything
for you.
You will never know me,
until the day
you contain me
within
your souls.
You will always be
at my mercy;
I have none,
not one modicum
have I.”
Subatomica,
existence itself,
all things,
all beings,
all tangibility,
all experience
only possible
because we have found each other.
As the Big Bang
expands
forever outward,
we reach
ever inward
into all things.
“Calm yourselves.
You ask the wrong questions.
You are neither victims
nor victors.
You have no power
apart from each other,
apart from us.
We are not separate;
we are the same.
We are,
all of us,
the same.
“Cosmos,
Sun and Moon,
Mother Earth,
the fates of Tide and Tree,
you are not individual,
you are not unique,
you are not powerful,
not powerless,
neither tossed about
by the idle hands
of others
nor in command
of time or space
or anything therein.
There is no you,
there is no I,
only us.”