Driving to work one morning, I saw a driftwood sculpture.
It had appeared as if by magic, since the night before.
I had to stop, and take a closer look
At least twenty feet wide, it soared high over my head.
As I balanced on logs, and walked on the damp carpet of seaweed,
I noticed an arrangement of sticks and shells, almost beneath my feet.
Carefully arranged, the path trailed along the beach,
Just within the range of ordinary high tide.
As I passed again, that afternoon,
The sculpture had the air of a derelict ship,
Trying desperately to float away on the outbound tide.
The shell path must have been gone by then.
Two mornings later, the ship, too, was gone.
There had been no storm, no extreme tides, not even wind.
No pile of driftwood remained to mark the spot.
Gone, the ghostly magic of the unknown artist.
©2006 Mary Cibulka Brown