A Day at the Beach

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.