Pocket Buddy

Beneath many currents
have I ridden.
Beneath the roil and tumble
have I survived.

Now at last,
a fling of wave and wind
rests me among found safety,
a pebble blanket high upon the shores
at the foot of your mountain protection.

How very long ago it seems
your massif spire,
its shudder,
the quaking shift,
splitting our security open
into severed shards,
razor chips,
all cascading into the sea.

We were all lost,
flung from your fortressed castle,
destined to drift and tumble
in watered darkness.

But …

After your fathoms-deep eruption,
ocean waters did soothe,
sunlight did transform devastation into vegetation,
your island survived,
your knife-edged spirit,
in spite of severed shoulders and face,
became a steadfast testimony of resilience.

Your ancient imagination made beautiful the scarring,
many cave-like eyes held firm the watch
as your beard of tangled vines continued its reach far below
across a rotund belly of scree and sand.

And now…

How peaceful this inlet shore
where briny caresses have sheltered
and made available this beach
for your pebbled orphans to return.

Here I am among the courageous,
waiting patiently to enjoin with the next tumbler
of your surviving kin,
looking to be selected,
perhaps gathered,
sorted,
and…

With the sun drying our polished continuance,
we wonder if the journey will find new purpose.
Perhaps to window pane,
cigar box,
maybe an aquarium,
resting among other friends of the deep.

Secretly, though…

I, for one, am hoping to become a pocket buddy.
That’s the best,
don’t you think?

To be carried about as a warm companion for a boy,
like the one hovering over me now.

So close his chubby fingers…