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mouthing the words "the Douve River estuary"
my son brought me home
some sand from Omaha beach
it is in a plastic water bottle
on my desk shelf
next to a clay pot and
a magnet Mona Lisa...
I look at its grains
brown to light tan,
do ghosts have stains
I think to myself and
if they did have stains
could they explain
to me why the world
squeezed itself this way
terrible pain for beauty, power
and ideologies, wolves
seeking flesh
in the tides...
where do we climb
to kiss the sky
that remembers
only yesterday's
good parts...
watching seasons
and water buys us time
we say to ourselves
this heals all wounds
we forget sometimes
to mention...
some scars
mean to keep
repeating rituals
watching rivers
and rain
turn mountains
into sand
at the sea...
EJR ©
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