sands of grain

katya de grunwald photography


they all write about this, i know, to the point of cliché....
so many words, eloquent, trite, common, touching,
describe a simple notion:
the persistent inability
to firmly grasp the grains of sand that
inevitably fall through our fingers
despite an ever present desire, need,
attempt, to hold on.

they all write about this,
today it is i, who will write, scribbled down on paper,
typed hastily on macbook, repeated over
and over under the falling water
of my shower, the persistent inability
to firmly grasp the grains of sand that
inevitably fall through our fingers;
the ever present desire to hold on.

'like the grains of sand through the hour glass,
so are the days of our lives'
a dramatic voice on the television
if you care to tune in,
speaks daily, from another room.

once i wrote a poem about the beach,
four pages long, and yet
one phrase: ephemeral sandcastles
stands out to me well beyond the rest.

does it all wash away? slip
through the fingers, smooth
out by morning as though nothing had ever been there?
whispers in the faithful return of the crashing
waves suggest to me otherwise..

you are like this.
these soft grains, course, at times
hot, and in moments, surprisingly cool,
damp; dry, too hot to walk on,
i sink deeper when i try to stand still, stumble
when i take a step toward you;
yet, they seem so firm
when you run away....

i reach down, without thinking,
yet it's all i think about,
and grab yet another handful of sand.
hot in the summertime,
cool in the autumn,
but i always reach for more.

grab a smooth handful of perfection,
a glimpse of what should be, an encounter
i can't ignore, pleasure
i don't want to forget and then i feel
the grains that slip through the cracks,
my desire fails to close the smallest of spaces in between
that allow you to escape,
seems the harder i hold on, the faster they fall,
can't grasp them, watch them, sense them
slipping through my fingers,
devastatingly deliciously caressing
as they fall away, reminding me to forget.

without thinking, and yet it's all i think about,
time and time again, i reach,
somehow faithful none the less, determined
to try once more; yet knowing all the while,
the small handful of hope that
i reach for and hold here is fleeting.

nearly immediate, eventual escape,
return, the grains fall,
mix with the sand below that spans
as far as my eyes can see, supporting me,
causing me to sink with every step.

warm breeze, cold wind,
the grains blow in my eyes, tears fall,
sandy fingers wipe them away with inherent motion
touched with familiarity and my damp fingers
reach down once more.
know i'll never be able to hold on
yet confident in that whisper,
gently touching me, slipping through my fingers,
but i'll never let go.

will seize them when i can,
feel the smooth, rough grains of perfection
between my fingers when
at last, your warm embrace
through the cool seasons evading, gentle, seductive,
fleeting, desperate, even apprehensive and infinite,
as the grains of sand we so often write about, read about,
walk all over and brush away with careless ease...

'when I consider every thing that grows
holds in perfection but a little moment…'
writes shakespeare in the first and second lines of sonnet 15...

ephemeral sandcastles

does it all wash away?
slip through the fingers,
smooth out by morning as though nothing had ever been
there; while whispers of the faithful return
in crashing waves upon these very grains of sand,
continue to suggest the caress of something more..