SAND FANTASIES

"I'm a castle of serene sand, meant to drown in the love of a wild wave." -©db

I have never been a fan of the beach. This is heresy where I come from. I am a native of Southern California and spent many a sunny day in my youth on the sands of Will Rogers, Zuma, and Malibu. It was what we did and so I went along. This is not to say I never had fun at the beach. Bikinis and bonfires and boys - what’s not to like about that? I can still smell the cocoa butter slathered on our bodies. No sunscreen in those days. My goal was to become as blonde and as tan as humanly possible.

I love the ocean. The rhythmic motion of the sea and crashing of the waves. I am mesmerized by it. However, the actual beach - the sand - makes me cringe. It gets into everything and everywhere. It is good for only one thing - sandcastles.

When my son was very young, I would take him to the beach with his little plastic pail and shovel and we would build rudimentary “castles” from wet sand molded by the pail and topped with drizzled turrets. He would get so excited as the tide ran in closer and closer until it managed to dissolve the castle slowly away.

As an adult, I have visited a few sand-art competitions: castles, animals, whatever the imagination can conjure up. The creative genius and arduous work that go into these artistic masterpieces are mind-boggling. There is no denying it is art. Impermanent but memorable. I wonder how these artists feel when the moment of destruction hits. I think I would be sad.

Today’s poem is a bit about that.

SAND FANTASIES

in the midst of the mist
of early dawn
they scramble
like crabs on caffeine
rushing
to put the finishing touches
on fantastical
sculptures
birthed from grains
of sand
damp creations
near the water’s edge
near the crashing waves
of destruction
castles rise with turrets
and minarets
mermaids lounge
teasing the sea
with seductive eyes
as elephants and owls
stand
gazing at the horizon
feet firmly planted
until the tide creeps
closer with swirling froth
ever closer
to take back
each clump of sodden sand
the ocean owns
grain by grain
until nothing is left
but the ever-lapping
everlasting
surf