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I Dream of Sandcastles MAG
April 13, 2022
I mold the tower, round the sides until
the imprint of my fingertips is gone.
I step back, no longer bothered
by the sand between my toes.
Here is Versailles;
here is Schloss Neuschwanstein;
here is December made of seashells
and white sand.
I hear the roar —
turn my face to the light;
I close my eyes
as the water strikes.
It does not pull me under.
It does not pull me under.
I turn back to Voergaard;
I turn back to the Citadel;
I turn back to December —
It pulled me under.
I kneel to mold the sand,
to once more craft our tower —
I wake in the dark to my 6 a.m. alarm —
I must get up now.
I must get up now.
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This whole poem spun out of a throwaway line in a brain storming session along the lines of "does the sand slip through your fingers in your dreams." I took that line and expanded it into this scene in which you're trying to build this castle (trying, trying, trying) and it keeps being washed away. You're not done trying (you won't ever be done trying), but then you wake and it's gone, the sand slips through your fingers and then your time is up.