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
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)