we dug our hands into soft sand – fire-beach children. my son’s pudgy fingers pressing at the earth, my fingers dancing around shells/pockets full of waves and sunken bits of salt-treasure. we made a mound – a simple mound/a thrilling mound. decadent with shell bits, ornate with pearlescent rocks – simple colors/magnetic cream and golden hue – something found, something borrowed, something blue and black and hollow. a shell, a whisper/a flagpole at the top of a tower. a firmament – a creation – a castle – a mound – a pile of wet sand/a toddler. a dream afternoon – silence, the splash of the tide, the concoction of clouds in the sky – curdling into a late afternoon storm. gathering, gathering. the sky is gathering. our hands our gathering. sandrain, we dream a wish moment. we build the captain of this ship – a tiny sliver of shell. a broken home washed up on the shore. we gather, we gather. we dig our hands in. we wash with the waves. we wave with the current. we sit in the silence – in the crash – in the din – in the storm-gather. we are a pair of sand-children, we are a pair of silent eyes creating a thrilling mound. and watching it get washed back out to sunken bits of salt-treasure.
coffee bones that rattle my teeth and windward sea leaves that sink in the sighs. this is the grace of another day sunk in the arms of the horizon. this is the wilderness of a chunk of land darting into the ocean. keys – laying about in pitter patter horizons and snaggle-toothed wretchery. treachery and piracy and plundering the depths and lengths of the sea that still surrenders to the swell of the sun. light and light and light and the courage of your eyes to pierce through it – dart fanged and wingless. creature keepers and creature comforts and comfortable bits of sand splayed out in nameless hieroglyphics – the markers of children’s haphazard fingers and haywire footsteps. and sand, this song.
and sand, this song. this battering ram of time that riddled the shores with rock ash and cremated granite. the solid form of face-full stones shattered and scattered across the shore. piece by piece, we form something new. piece by piece, we lay on top of one another and press. Piece by piece, enough air gets through to keep gravity afloat. and our hands sift through the ashes. and our hands mold castles with clay. and our hands make sense of the sand by saying it means nothing at all. our eyes make sense of the sand by saying this is a place to lay. not a place to pray – to silent rubble gone satin-skinned and collective.
this is the sound the sand makes. this is the heart the sun takes. this is the way the waves wash. this is the way we transform.
the song of the sand sings with a singular voice. from a collecting collective of an infective directive: toss the rocks to the shore/
break the stone to a trillion pieces/
rattle, shatter, rumble and roll/
break it apart, break it apart –
make a trillion things born new and satin-skinned.