Beachcomber

(About my canoe, but knowing that I have been called the Beachcomber helps to understand this one)

Her battered bow attests a ceaseless search,
Each rapids run or portaged round
Through tunnels carved of conifers and birch
Till evening's campsite could be found

Her probing prow proclaims her singing soul.
As paddles pushed and drove her on
Till sunset sought each known, yet unknown goal,
And campfires searched the darkness and beyond.

Now outlined low beside life's surging stream,
A sacrament that's real and now
Attesting human presence, not a dream,
Significant that keel, that bow.

-William Malewitz, The Beachcomber

The world is made up of two kinds of people; the givers and the getters. I've never found an unhappy giver. I've never found a happy getter.