Sand

I used to play 
in the sandbox, 
digging to China, 
building dream castles, 
packing damp sand 
into walls 
that never cared 
how long 
they would 
stand. 

I dig 
my heels 
deep 
down 
in the sand 
pressing harder,
harder against
shifting ground,
bracing myself 
against the erosion 
beneath 
me. 

People 
around me lower 
their faces, 
lower, 
deeper into the grain, 
comforted by cool 
damp sand, 
choosing silence, 
ignoring sight 
over air 
and light.

Glass curves
above us
throat narrowing,
as the grains we stood
upon
fall
from heaven
to hell.

I refuse to wait
for the bottom
to fill,
so I claw
up the encroaching
grave 
up
up to where
light still
breathes.

Breaking My Own Rules

I usually avoid clichés. My goal is usually to find a fresh metaphor that surprises the reader. In this poem, I decided to do something different. I leaned into the familiar on purpose.

I used common images like the sandbox, digging in your heels, and burying your head. Even the hourglass is a very old concept. I wanted to see if these “worn-out” symbols could still feel urgent. I wanted to see if using images we all recognize could help us feel the weight of the moment.

Sometimes a cliché is just a starting point. I hoped to take these well-known pieces in new direction. I wanted to build something that feels fresh by the time you reach the end.

Did it work? Did these familiar images pull you in, or did they feel too comfortable?

I want you to let me know in the comments.

Timeless Sand

I am not the first to write about sand. William Blake saw “a world in a grain of sand.” Percy Bysshe Shelley used desert sands to show time erasing kings. T.S. Eliot found “fear in a handful of dust.” Jorge Luis Borges wrote about a book made of sand that never ended.

Writers return to this image because sand shifts. So, here I am, trespassing among the greats. Maybe it is a bit bold to build my sandbox among their deserts, but I don’t need their permission. I wanted to see how my symbols stand against theirs.