where do you stand 
when you stand on the sand,
when you stand on this
land that sinks and sways,
holding little castle collections
for maybe a day?

this earth underneath you—
the land between the land
  and the sea—
the beach you’ve subdued
with spring-breaks and condos
is the crudest beauty you’ll walk.
and yes you will walk and not run
in your barefeet and skinned soul,
because this is holy ground—
the unfirm, shaky, shifting
unburdening of your plans
and your self-sufficient hands,
all your doing, silenced
in the wake of the slapping sea,
to arrive at the gazing point
and finally inhale peace.

with every step forward
to that saltwater bath,
your feet pulverize
tiny sand dunes— 
a thousand grains,
disrupted and displaced,
with every step
another thousand quiet 
movements, a ricochet—
maybe more inside of you.

sand, dense and dry,
soft only for sitting
leads us somewhere
when we walk in it,
when that exfoliation
scratches our heart
for something deeper—
mysterious, treacherous, 
gorgeous waves that calm
and still, a paradox.

there is no straight and narrow
path to peace.
there is no path to paradise
that skips the beach.
a foundation is measured
by what it produces,
not by its power
to prop you up above 
the waves of change...

therefore, dear drifter:
whatever shore or land
that stands between you
and open hands
is the place to try
to stand—
the sink, shift, sway 
forward to those waves
that carry
our eternal rhythm,
to catch a glimpse of
the beyond.