The spring rains
Brought driftwood
Down the river
Depositing it
At the boat ramp
A mess
That blocked the launch
Of recreational craft
I saw her approach
Pulling a little cart
She gleaned the pile
Moving the limbs
Searching for the pieces
Bleached white
By the turgid foam
She eyed it
Rejecting some
Gathering others
She seeing a finished product
Something special
Where I only saw sticks
Her little cart full
She pulled it away
With glue, ribbons and insight
The rubble had new life
Cute folk art
She would sell
It is the artist vision
That sees beauty
When others
See only trash
It is the master
That reminds us
How narrow
Is our sight
How much
We have yet to see
