Year of yin: grains of sand

November collapsed like so many dusky sand castles abandoned by the idle hands whom shaped them. Promises of distant adventures coroded by the changing tides. Pillars soften in the salty grasp as the architecture returns to sludge.  We built no home here. A temporary escape, as joyful as it is brief, in a beautiful day that too can not stay. With sandy fingers and red sun burnt faces we ply our simple task to loose a day, a month, in the coarse fabric of the sand. A playful gesture. Towered & fallen. Unnoticed & unmourned. Tonight my thoughts are with those grains of sand settling on the ocean floor. Who can measure where the tides may pull the pieces that we shed in the course of shaping useless fantasies before we are dead.


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