Work on a Remote Island

It's rare to afford a good place to stay.
Ask any lost camper, any migrant,
Any shipwrecked sailor, human or not.
To wedge into a spot safe and secure
With necessary resources at hand,
To have the resource-holding potential
To be at rest without being dislodged
By the next bit of wrack floating ashore
And looking for a meal, a slave, a place
To plant a flag and dig in as you did,
This is the only momentary peace
In this world. For the rest, we are restless
And rootless, even tethered to our graves.
We scan the rollers and write on the waves.