Sifting Hands Through Sand, an Old Photo
Sitting in the sand,
sifting sand through hands,
the warmth remarkable.
To touch is a thing she does
to know what’s real,
and this place holds happiness
in crashing surf,
and seagull cry.
Around her neck, a mustard seed
drops into the pale blue of her bathing suit.
The dark curls of her hair
are tied down with clips and rubberbands.
Don’t dare take a picture,
her eyes say,
don’t dare take a picture of me
pale and watching and alone,
hold me instead against your basket
of warm milk and jelly sandwiches,
sing me water music with words
that say okay to be so lost and afraid,
okay to be so angry.
Is it okay to be pale in this land of sun,
to glare at the camera’s eye,
to be angry at the mustard seed?
Belief, was why,
and faith, she wore it.
Each day she’d think all things are possible
today my hands will only be
little girl hands in the sand,
sifting hands through sand.