8/19/09;
Like sand,
your hands slipped through the openings between my fingers.
I let you fall from me, grain by grain, and then rubbed my hands together
to get what was left of you off.
You fell, so slowly,
back onto the shores of the beach.
The beach, it was your home. When I met you so long ago, I scooped you up
into my yellow pail with my blue shovel and hauled you around everywhere
I could think of to go.
I took you away from where the tide could refresh you
and into the world that was so cruel and rampant, it shook with intensity that I sometimes dropped you into the cracks of the earth
where I could never find those small pieces of you again.
All those little pieces have become a portion of you missing.
Today,
I am giving you back to the beach.
I have grown too old for my yellow pail and blue shovel,
but it is easy to let them go.
They will float into the sea just the way they have always been,
not a sheer difference in their appearance, and not a change in their inner parts,
they have stayed durable, they have stayed strong. Lasting alone in a ravishing world,
that yellow pail and blue shovel did not need you-- the sand-- it was I who thought I did,
then realized I would not always want you.
Letting you seep through my cracks will be terrible, tragically hard.
You have changed!
Can you survive without me?
I am afraid you are something else now.
The beach, your forever home, is not a home anymore than it is a starting point.
Realistically, you can leave it on your own. Yet, I have held you
in that bucket of mine, you transpired with me,
you seen things because of me, felt, thought, wanted all because of me and my shovel.
Blue, it was blue: the shade of my eyes as I am staring into yours,
the scent of the ocean in the background as I am leaving you standing there,
and the color of the tears rolling down your cheeks.
They fall into the sand and brown it, like water does.
Eventually, it will carry you away.
My home was never the beach; no, my life was never within the shores.
Deep down I always knew it was the mountains. Yes,
and they will carry me away.
your hands slipped through the openings between my fingers.
I let you fall from me, grain by grain, and then rubbed my hands together
to get what was left of you off.
You fell, so slowly,
back onto the shores of the beach.
The beach, it was your home. When I met you so long ago, I scooped you up
into my yellow pail with my blue shovel and hauled you around everywhere
I could think of to go.
I took you away from where the tide could refresh you
and into the world that was so cruel and rampant, it shook with intensity that I sometimes dropped you into the cracks of the earth
where I could never find those small pieces of you again.
All those little pieces have become a portion of you missing.
Today,
I am giving you back to the beach.
I have grown too old for my yellow pail and blue shovel,
but it is easy to let them go.
They will float into the sea just the way they have always been,
not a sheer difference in their appearance, and not a change in their inner parts,
they have stayed durable, they have stayed strong. Lasting alone in a ravishing world,
that yellow pail and blue shovel did not need you-- the sand-- it was I who thought I did,
then realized I would not always want you.
Letting you seep through my cracks will be terrible, tragically hard.
You have changed!
Can you survive without me?
I am afraid you are something else now.
The beach, your forever home, is not a home anymore than it is a starting point.
Realistically, you can leave it on your own. Yet, I have held you
in that bucket of mine, you transpired with me,
you seen things because of me, felt, thought, wanted all because of me and my shovel.
Blue, it was blue: the shade of my eyes as I am staring into yours,
the scent of the ocean in the background as I am leaving you standing there,
and the color of the tears rolling down your cheeks.
They fall into the sand and brown it, like water does.
Eventually, it will carry you away.
My home was never the beach; no, my life was never within the shores.
Deep down I always knew it was the mountains. Yes,
and they will carry me away.