Grains of Sand

Sand sticks. Tiny particles of ground rock and coral cling to the palm of your sweaty, salty hands. Try brushing it off but it won't leave, pressed in to your skin. Go down to the water's edge and hold your hands where a wave is about to wash up the beach, soaking your hands clean whilst more, other, numerous grains swill between your toes and get stuck there. Run backwards and fall back tripping, and now elbows are like sandpaper and grains are caught in pockets of clothing.

Lie down, head on the sand, to discover later the grains will be hidden in your scalp too, and ears, and brushed across your face. Lick salt-water off your lips; sand there also. 

Sand in every single place.

      "How precious to me are your thoughts... 

       Were I to count them, they would 

       outnumber the grains of sand."

Look up at hot sky, not hearing the sound that sand underneath you makes because it has nothing to say, except that there are thoughts about your life too many to imagine and whilst you were never meant to carry them yourself, they cannot resist you. 

No, there are many good thoughts for your life that cannot resist you.

{Today's Soundtrack: Bill Withers - Ain't No Sunshine}