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Sand
Patrick Goins
22 Jan 2004
IV. Sand
The sand between my fingers is grainy, mealy.
It glitters and fades, shimmering like small stars
In the light of a sister sun.
It falls from my hand and becomes the wind,
eroding the landscape,
Turning faces to smooth surface and bringing lost kings
To their knees.
Down by the beach, though, the sand becomes mud
Before it joins the sea and the salt.
It makes me wonder.
Perhaps years from now someone will pick up
The very same sand
And let it slip through their fingers.
Perhaps great men grasped that same sand, or lesser men,
Or men of purpose, or men of dreams.
Who knows?
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