the driftwood on my beach
is soft and gray,
a sleepy reminder
of trees that once stood
tall and young and strong.
But when the rains come,
the old gray wood awakens;
the colors of a life once lived
spring forth again,
the wounds appear
to throb again,
a call to passers-by:
I am not now
what I once was,
but, oh -- the life I've lived.
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