Sifting Sands

You are barefoot, settled on
hard granulated heat.
You scoop thousands of grains against
their adamance until these
sifting sands fall through your fingers:
this silk shawl built from boulders slips
and captivates you, with the
ironic euphony of coarse rain.
They fly and pile, form fragile mountains.

And you run on them. Your
tribe chases you with a
hose of delight. Vitality
splashes the arid pores
of your beaming face,
it teaches you. Immersed in

the gentle vivacity of pulsing
waves that wash your feet with
effervescent force, with a cool
invigorating clarity. Each drop
a history that flourished before words.

Day dwindles – shelter invited and I
sit alone: in a cave accompanied
by kindling ashes that warm
grubby hands. These flames sway
with the physics of the ethereal.
The textures of my soul sift. Through
nourishment and steadfastness, I
breathe prayers for the one who
forged feeling. Who forged warmth,
water, and sand.