Sifting Through
the Sand
I sit among the scattered shells,
A shovel in my hand;
But use my fingers, gently curled,
For sifting through the sand.
I'm looking for something I've lost,
But don't expect to find.
The sand is something tangible,
But I'm sifting through my mind.
It's cluttered now with memories
And dreams that wouldn't die,
Like seagrass sometimes hides sandspurs
That make the tender cry.
Like broken glass or other trash,
Are bitterness and fear.
But buried deep within it all
Are treasures I hold dear.
So, deeper still, I plunge my hand
And probe the tenderregions
Of an angry, broken heart
That knows so many seasons.
Somewhere in there are treasures
I still hope to find.
Buried in this broken heart
or in this troubled mind.
Somewhere is peace, and laughter.
A way to understand.
New hope, a kind of healing.
Somewhere. In the sand.
Who has learned that dreams may never come to
be,
But dreaming keeps the heart beating.
And loving carries an inherent risk of losing...
But not loving means that all is already lost.
http://www.geocities.com/gwenflowers/
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
||||||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
|
||||
