Poetry and other Joys
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Building on Sand
The beach (that is our love) has not been civilized.
If we drive, our car's wheels will
Stick in the sand, whirring uselessly.
Walk the path barely hacked through palmettos,
And then feel the test of the open sand underfoot
Forcing a run to water's edge.
This beach (that is our love) at the great ocean's edge
Offers scant comfort. Nothing is built here.
We have to bring strawberries and a blanket to inhabit.
What washes shoreward to us is not perfect, no
Pink-frilled shells or satin beach glass.
We shall have to make this love.
This beach (that is our love) from driftwood and seaweed.
We practice avoiding jellyfish and painful
Sharp edges of coral. If we can,
We then shall be granted our days
In this, the most elemental of places
Of the sun, of the beach (that is our love).
Delilah Riordan, June 29, 1998