When it was a branch
on the cottonwood tree,
the driftwood never imagined
it could travel—
and now look at it, softened,
smoothed, riding the current.
Oh heart, what have you
yet to imagine?
When it was a branch
on the cottonwood tree,
the driftwood never imagined
it could travel—
and now look at it, softened,
smoothed, riding the current.
Oh heart, what have you
yet to imagine?