Sandscape

The past is sand, blowing and drifting
The stories we tell ourselves
pushed up in dunes,
and scooped out in valleys —
A landscape of the hidden
and the revealed,
appearing and disappearing.

Sand slips through our fingers
Slides away under our feet —
The wind lifts it high;
it flies into our eyes
making us blind.
It washes out to sea
Returns on the wind
scattered into new forms.

The stuff of our memory
is a sandscape, moving,
courting mirage.