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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?