Returning Sands

The shifting sands remember

the walker from the days

when April was December

seen through a summer’s haze.

Now, darting on air’s whispers,

the swallows’ cousins dance

and here with ocean’s sisters

they leave nothing to chance.

A look, then glance away,

the flying penguins turn

and chase the breeze.

Knowing one thing, I see,

this monument is ancient

and divine.

With six years gone, a moment

for the rock beneath.

But for the sickles of the air,

le mont, the rock, a place to stop from air.

So brief, a loss of flair

and drop once more to home,

where wings become the tools of freedom

and people only stare.

It’s fine to return,

if time begins again

and the courage of the heart

deepens to complete

what it once began.