Oh, to be a dune.

We plunge our hands into fragrant sand
On the shore of our very own river.
Begin to dig a hole that we say is the way to China-
And focus on transferring sand
From one place to another.
As if it's an important job. We furrow our brows.
...As if we could have some sort of affect on this landscape.
As if the shore will not have what it wants, will not make smooth again our meager divets,
Reclaim our attempts at change.
And at the end of the day it is our own skin that is changed-
Darkened from sun, saturated with the power of the current,
We pulsate on that walk home.
Lap at our own shores with parched, salty lips.
And under our nails we are scrubbed clean, but for the tiny pieces
Of this day that we decide take with us.
What changes us, renews us, it comes with us.
The rest we leave behind.