Roundel on a Piece of Driftwood      Our lives are told in the run of ebb and flow,     keen edge and dull, sharp summer shade, blunt winter cold, of light and dark, laid down inside us. And so     our lives are told   as this driftwood’s is, its story clear. Old     seasons there—soft spring-wood hollowed, worn down low, fall-into-winter thinner, tougher, bold   as sinews flexed for a harder striving. That slow     hard-going stiffened, braced it—saved it—left shore-shoaled and stranded. We have seasons yet, but know     our lives are told. Graham Walker