FLOTSAM by Becky Miller

I am an autumn leaf floating in a gentle stream of runoff.

Broken and dry, the water cannot revive my green freshness.

Brown and brittle, I follow the path of the water flowing ever onward.

I toss and drift along, without plan or thought.

My only road is the waterway, having no purpose, just movement.

My road is not destined or planned. I drift.

The stream swells in volume and depth.

I quiver in the increased turbulence, bouncing from rock to rock,

Twirling faster as the current grows stronger.

More water joins the rill, creating rapids and pools of despair.

A vortex grabs my essence and hurls me into the tornadic whirl,

Forcing me deeper into the depths of the rage.

I am spit out onto an eddy, neither traveling with drive nor destination.

I am flotsam in a spillway, trapped by forces beyond my control.

I am wreckage in the river of Covid-19.