I’ve never built a sandcastle at
the beach,
one to be washed away with the
rising tide;
I’ve found starfish, though, and
sand dollars
and periwinkles in the pools left by
retreating water,
dug a hole and buried my feet in
the sand, felt
its grit the rest of the day, felt
the sun’s warmth
on my face and bare back, cooled,
too, by a cold
ocean, a salt spray, and felt the
hot sand on my bare feet
padding the shore, walking hand in
hand, lovers,
hearing the scream of sea gulls
overhead and the wind
rushing past us, lifting their
wings outstretched, soaring,
and me, too, carried skyward and
away, drawn afar by the ocean’s pull,
ebb and flow, smoothing rough sand,
soft and silky, now,
taking with it the detritus once
carried in, perhaps, from a distant shore
I cannot see, looking even now for
that bottle bearing a note,
“I am here, still, waiting, watching,”
but I have no castle
built in the sand to give you, only
the riches of a day at the beach,
shells and driftwood, beach glass
worn smooth,
and the memories I carried home.
