Sand

As calendar pages

fold up and float away

like origami swans,

I dig through the sandbox of memory.

I carry cities of sand

in my shoes.

 

At the beach with my grandmother,

I found green and orange sand.

She said it might once have been

sea glass.

I found sand as white

as piano keys.

She said it might once have been

bones.

I wonder how much of the sand in my shoes

is what I lost of my spine.

 

Looking through my desk,

I found old valentines,

paper curling in at the edges

like ocean foam.

Some of them were from the girls

who braided my hair

into friendship bracelets.

I rubbed these against my cheek

and put them in my treasure tin

with the sea glass.

Some of them were from therapists

with auras like electric fences,

the finger paint colors of the paper

reminding me of feelings charts

and smiley face stickers.

I put them back quickly,

but somehow couldn’t manage

to throw them away.

 

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5 thoughts on “Sand

  1. Your descriptions are vivid and authentic…refreshing, really. I really enjoyed this…the surreal feeling of the opening and the mystical talk of colors and aura in the close…excellent work!

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