Making sand castles.
Being this age in this age
is making sand castles
in front of an approaching tide.
We see the driftwood. We dig for sand dollars
and pretty shells. We write our names.
We inspect with curiosity
the hollowed-out crab shells
and seagull carcasses.
Gleefully, we try to outrun the waves;
we still get wet. Then the sea comes
and washes it all away, grinding down
the bones, the shells, the names.
When we have gone, the sea rolls back out
leaving nothing but empty horizon, clean sand,
and the echo of waves.