Standing, still, and <br />with a handful of dry sand <br />I close my fingers tightly, <br />tightly round the yielding <br />granules held vice like in my hand <br />and tightening to stop the <br />mass escape of so many <br />miniscule grains <br />through gaps in ringed fingers. <br />The harder I grasp the more <br />they find release <br />and signify the passing of time, <br />of times lost in passing <br />and as my tears fall, <br />fall onto my hands <br />each dropp mingles with the sand <br />the sands of times lost <br />and make them stick, <br />sticking to my hand <br />not lost but sand adhering <br />as alone I stand <br />even though their appointed time <br />is now past. <br />Would it have been better <br />if without the tears <br />they had been freed <br />out of my reach and grasp <br />without the fetters of warm liquid <br />tears which adhere them <br />to these hands <br />until returning to the sea <br />they are washed and cleansed from me.<br /><br />David Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sand-tears-and-time/
