Ever tried holding sand in your hand? At first, it feels steady, something solid that can be held onto. Then, slowly, it starts slipping away—grain by grain. The harder the grip, the faster it falls.
Life can feel like that. Things shift, whether wanted or not. Sometimes, change is loud and impossible to miss. More often, it’s subtle. Like erosion, gradual and steady, pulling away until, one day, everything looks and feels different.
This kind of change touches everyone. A role that once defined everything starts to fade. A routine that once provided structure no longer fits. Even the version of yourself that once felt solid begins to feel distant. The ground doesn’t disappear all at once. It crumbles, piece by piece, leaving you to figure out how to stand on something entirely new.
Adapting isn’t about holding on tighter to what is slipping away. It is about learning to move in a new way. Disability, chronic illness, and unexpected detours in life all push for this kind of shift.
There is no going back to what was. Yet there’s also no stopping what comes next. Sometimes, that next thing turns out to be more valuable—more fulfilling or meaningful in the moment—than what’s been left behind.
At the heart of Driftwood, there’s a tree—strong, rooted, steady by the river’s edge. It represents stability, something unshakable. Yet, even the most solid ground doesn’t stay firm forever. Over time, it begins to shift. Storms roll in, and the roots start to weaken. The fall doesn’t happen suddenly or violently. It unfolds gradually, piece by piece, a quiet collapse. Eventually, the river claims it.
Adapting to change is never easy, and sometimes, it is not about holding on. It’s about letting go and learning to move in a new direction. The shift can be subtle, like erosion, slowly pulling away until everything feels different. This concept is reflected in the poem, Driftwood.
Driftwood
By Kerry Ann Wiley
Tall once on the river’s edge,
Roots knotted deep in earth’s steady pledge.
The soil whispered promises it could not keep,
Chipped away by waters that refused to sleep.
Bit by bit, the ground gave way,
A quiet erosion, day by day.
Currents laughed, their song so benign,
Until the pull unraveled what once was mine.
Storms tore branches, splintered the core,
Winds howled, rains claimed more and more.
The weight of time began to press,
A slow collapse into nothingness.
Fallen, silent, into the stream,
The river carried what remained of the dream.
A fragment, a remnant, floating free,
A piece of what was meant to be.
Yet the drift is not an end at all;
The waves reshape what storms let fall.
Every scar speaks of battles survived,
Each grain a mark of having thrived.
Some see ruin, a form undone,
A fractured shell beneath the sun.
But others find beauty in battered lines,
The art of endurance through endless tides.
The river asks nothing of what remains,
Only to dance through its shifting veins.
Not whole, not broken—just set adrift,
A soul transformed by the water’s gift.
The river pressed close, whispering low,
Soft at first, then unrelenting.
What held firm began to loosen,
A quiet surrender to the constant pull.
The ground beneath was once a promise,
Rich, steady, full of weight.
But promises thin under patient hands,
Eroding grain by grain,
Until there is nothing left to hold.
Storms tore through with a cruel precision,
Branches snapped, torn free without apology.
The air grew heavy with each breath of wind,
And even the strongest roots began to fray.
Time leaned heavy on aging bark,
Not in leaps, but in whispers.
The weight of years became the final blow,
And what stood tall finally gave way.
What remains drifts through restless waters,
Not as it was, but not erased.
The shape is different, yet still alive,
Carved anew by hands unseen.
Some would see ruin in the splinters,
A story of what was lost.
But there is beauty in the softened edges,
In the way even broken wood floats.
The river asks no questions of the fallen,
Only carries it onward,
A silent witness to the unmaking
And the quiet, endless becoming.
The poem starts with collapse. The poem opens with a tree’s gradual decline. Once strong, it is slowly worn down by time, water, and storms. This erosion feels inevitable, happening slowly as its roots and structure steadily weaken.
Ultimately, the weight of time becomes undeniable. Pressure builds steadily, leaving little room for resistance. In the end, the tree can no longer hold its ground and gives way.
Yet, the story doesn’t end there. The driftwood—the remnants of the tree—doesn’t disappear. Instead, the river carries it forward, reshaping its form. Splinters, softened edges, and scars all tell a story of survival. What is left is different, but it’s still alive. Still moving.
The poem doesn’t pretend the driftwood is whole. It bears the marks of everything it has endured. These marks are part of its character. “Each grain a mark of having been.” The scars don’t lessen the value of what remains. Instead, they add to it. The poem highlights that the driftwood’s imperfections enhance its beauty, reflecting its journey through change.
Interestingly, the river doesn’t demand anything from the driftwood. It simply carries it forward, allowing it to stay as it is. There’s no effort to change its shape or return it to its original form. The poem shows how the river lets the driftwood exist in its new state, embracing the natural changes without trying to fix what was lost.
This is where the poem feels raw and real. It doesn’t push a story of recovery or a return to the past. Instead, it lets the driftwood exist in its new form. Different, but not less. That’s the lesson. Adapting isn’t about rebuilding what is lost. It is about creating something new from what remains. Driftwood isn’t less than the tree—it simply changes. Its different form holds its own significance.
The line, “Not whole, not broken—just set adrift,” reflects a deeper reality. Life isn’t black and white. It is not about being completely intact or entirely falling apart. Instead, it’s about the spaces in between. The driftwood continues to float. It bears its scars, yet it moves forward.
The poem explores how small, gradual shifts can shape who or what someone becomes. Like driftwood that keeps moving forward despite its marks, experiences leave their impressions while creating new paths. With everything always shifting, a question comes to mind: How can the past be honored while moving toward what’s next?
