THE SPACE OF SELF
We lie at the coastline of the ocean,
white foam sprays our backs,
ferocious waves roar.
We are tossed and turned by the
summer wind
and by the children with their pails
to fill
as though we grains of sand were grains
of gold.
We lie at the border of water and
land.
We neither speak nor conspire to
rebel.
Humility comes easily to us.
“What good are you?” Once asked a
beachcomber
sifting for lost change and finding
none.
Bathers soften their steps on their
swimmer’s walk,
they lie above us on their blankets.
They shade us from the hot sun and
the waves.
We have no need for more.
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