sand.

the sand is fine, beautiful...
an uncomfortable yet delightful world 

exists right here, 

within my hand.

that hand wants to squeeze,
to grasp the sand...

hold it forever.
my mind feels 
the need to release.
so I practice.
palm wide and flat 
like a runway for a jetliner,
or a seashell in which 

sits a pure and precious pearl. 
some of the grains
pick up with the wind
and leave quietly, 
on their own.
some, more attached,
require the wind from my lungs,
who live next to my heart
and don't want to choose sides.
against their will,
they blow.
finally, the last specks,
some shiny, some dull, 
almost embedded in my sun shocked skin,
feel the cold assault
of the briny water 
and understand they too, 
must leave me. 

I know, somewhere,

certain small grains 

have hidden

within my hair,

or the lining of my suit...

places I cannot see

but will feel

at some point I least expect it.

let it be so.