Sand

Winter storms left their message.
Beaches, trees, houses are gone.
Don’t behave like John McEnroe,
Slamming his racquet
On a defenseless water machine.
The Ocean is tasked
To move in response
To the moon, wind, sun
And other random acts of nature.

To build on the coastal sands
Suggests an arrogance
That has lost sight of limits
Or a stupidity that concludes
The accumulation of millions of grains
In the space between the tree line
And the sea
Is an abnormality, having nothing to do
With the waters way.

When the last footprint
Has been eroded
And no bird hunts for fish
Among the building waves,
Then neither the crashing tumult
Nor the gentle rippling of a timid
Entreaty upon the shore
Will not be witnessed,
Accept by the sand.