Sand

It slips surreptitiously through the hourglass,

one painstaking grain at a time, counting

for the sake of counting. If you watch

an hourglass become empty on top,

you’ve lost an hour, not gained one.

Where does time go? Where did it come from? Does it have a purpose?

The beaches are the colors of the rocks the ocean beat into crystals,

Pink, black, beige, sparkling white powder in places,

admiring the ocean, daring it to reduce it further,

Wind sculpting dunes of disbelief, monuments defying force,

sea oat crowns congratulating themselves

for doing the impossible, growing out of salt and sand,

something a rose bush or even rosemary

would never attempt, citing

their need for the dark loaminess

as preference, an aesthetic choice

while wild dogwoods tower over them,

splashes of white in the forest.