Time’s not sands, it’s gardens.
Not hot and granular and soulless
but sprouting, blooming,
shrinking, reverting to its dormant state.

Time’s not the footprints, so fragile,
they can’t survive the following tide.
It’s the promise even in the dying stem,
the curled up, rotting petals.

Along the beach, kids build castles
no one lives in, adults tan skin that’s soon to fade.
The garden goes about time’s business.
Its roots can’t help themselves.