Sifted from the tips of sun-spotted towers
children twist and plunge through spindrift.
They frolic as a memory of squalls, a history
of gulls rising in the same shower of abundance.
At the right angle, their wings appear as water,
a wake of elements breathing in the mind,
echoing down the halls of our common home.
Lying back in the sand, we begin to remember
a place, a love that once held us close, then lifted us—
quiet and warm. We turn to each other to give it
a name, this instant of knowing how it all reaches out
and returns, holds our hands even now, as we too
hold hands and fall back toward silence, content
to watch the waves reclaim what didn’t belong to us.
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