Poem of the Month

Click poem title for YouTube link

I know now not to try

to count the grains.

There will always be those missed

because they’re lodged in fingernails

or hiding their casual grit

in peoples’ stomachs;

grazed first by molars, then swallowed

before they could be tongued and spat out.

And that softness when you let it fall

through your fingers isn’t real –

there is hardness there.

Even the colour diminishes

when you separate the grains.

You would need a microscope

to bring the beauty back.

Instead of counting

I stand

lift my head_­

just look at that sand.