We only want a beach with white sand,

something we can sift through with our fingers

the way sunlight filters through the trees.

But something else will be at work here as we,

too, pass through the warm days like waves

weighing nothing.


Perhaps it is the water that will pass through,

clinging to our bodies, seeking to fill us with

what we’ve lost, that fundamentality city life

has robbed us of, clothing us with its own

brand of affection, embracing us, reminding us

to return to what is less.


We will live again in a hut, waking with the sun,

forgetting for a while the rush of all that we are

not, the dark office walls, the callous desks and

chairs, the indifferent floor, the department

voices, the hands holding phones and tools, the

feet encased in steel boots.


Near the beach, we will eat each day, closer to

the earth, closer to the water and the sky, necks

not needing to strain, fingers to grasp, eyes to

pierce.  We will speak gently again, genuinely,

meaning even every word we do not say, giving

more room to own time.



©  Ella Wagemakers, 12.55 Dutch time (=  6.55 EST in the US)

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