Driftwood

I am but driftwood passing by, So small against the summer sky. So many people never see Something worth looking at in me. Yet others stop to view my form And think of me as smooth and warm. Some carve a keepsake from my hide And show me off with so much pride Remembering where I was found, A simple stick upon the ground. It’s funny how some souls we touch, Yet others don’t see very much. © 2012 Pam H. Murray