You are the hot oceanside sands slipping all too easily
Through my fragile fingers.
You are the tide rolling carelessly in, breaking,
Roaring back out into vastness.
You are the moments fleeing far too quickly now.
The child lost, indigenous vagabond, rebel without a cause.
It seems I possess no hour glass in which to contain you,
No bucket to carry you home.
No light, that you might see your path.
Cursed to endlessly roam,
You are the satellite in outer space.
It seems i’ve sailed the universe
Since last I saw your face.
You may be a free bird in your own mind,
I see a dandelion.
Soon some round faced child shall clumsily pluck you,
Close their hopeful wide eyes
Only to wish and blow
Sending you soaring through the atmosphere
With only the galaxy to hold you then.
© Melissa Fry Beasley 2003