Poetry

Summer Bummer, 26 (178.)

Grains of sand wind away from a metal stalagmite
in swirls of double-helical iridescence
and somewhere,
in another plane of existence, perhaps,
an hourglass loses time.
It will be turned over, eventually,
and the sand will swirl
in the other direction,
counter to its former self,
which was counter to a prior self,
and this
is our frame for progress.
Learn to love thy beach of spent minutes,
for naught is yours
but sand and water,
and sunshine when you find it,
and these must turn to castles
or stay piles of lazy hassles.
If time be but a construct,
then surely,
on its shores,
we may construct with it.

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