Flotsam

Most days, I am flotsam

adrift from goal to goal, port to port, floating along the currents between events-

like kelp, I have bubbles of hope-memory, buoys to keep my head above the surface

to catch a glimpse of what is coming over the crest of the next wave,

supports so I can stretch my fronds across the surface

and bask in the benevolence of the sun that feeds me,

to keep me aloft when the chasm beneath me deepens

and fills with swimming silhouettes.

My roots are not roots, they are holdfasts

wound tightly around rocks to keep me upright

but light enough for the tides to lift my weights within its grasp

and transport me anew.

My anchors are sized accordingly from pebbly irritant to boulderlike trauma.

Without them, I might not know the true nature of down

and I might grow upside-down, stretching from bad to worse

to the places where light cannot reach.

As I go, I must leave pieces of me behind, sometimes.

Debris jams pull at my excess weight, reminding me to lighten up

or risk stagnation in a vortex of accumulated trash.

I must drop the heaviest burdens when currents race

Or be split apart by opposing forces.

Herbivores take bites, some small and some large, leaving me with lacy holes and complex edges.

They are not missing pieces; they are the proof of my opportunities to sustain others

in an environment where nourishment is far-flung.

From each jagged edge, new growth lets me reinvent my intended shape.

Like plankton, I can divide myself

into a colony of future versions- trying on different habitats

imagining a life among jewel-toned coral

or surrounded by playful otter

or endlessly following the currents from ocean to ocean,

watching for a strategy that allows me to thrive.

I have learned not to linger in busy bays

where ferry horns call and passage markers command

where the busy traffic of boat wakes

pushes me from the subtler voice of moon

and the quiet respites hiding behind sandy spit or wind-bared rock.

If you look at the expanse of history where I float,

on these days

I lay flat against the horizon, mostly transparent. I am invisible to the eyes of those self-appointed to

decide what should matter on the landscape

and those blind to the contributions

of others who gave to help them realize their destiny.

I appear as merely a raft to rest on, a net of shade beneath a blistering sun, a snack for the more charismatic

to sample on their way to something great.

This could be troublesome if I were bird or boat or silvery fish,

but today I am flotsam

and I know, without seeing,

that I am a part of an endless network of others like me

floating, feeding, shading

quietly springboarding possibility

for as far as the seas can reach.

I float on, my hundred imagined selves

photosynthesizing promise into each new shape brought on by storms and predators-

trusting in the currents that pull me

waiting for the next opportunity

to emerge from the primordial sea.