Edges fall first,
silt grains cemented
under thousands of years
sloughed away by wind, rain,
footstep of dog,
sandstone alchemized beneath
weight of mountain
turns sand again

Subtle rubbing of days shapens us anew,
weathering, the
slowest song of change

No wonder we wake up some days
wondering at who we used to be.
No wonder we don’t always notice
as our outer edges strip away.

No wonder the children build castles
made of sand at water’s edge,
even though the castles fall.

They are practicing for
when they too will feel
what once seemed enduring
slip inside the rising tide.

Originally published in What We Were Born For.