Sandcastle

Young feet on the threshold
Of Life's passageway
Young hands barely starting
To imprint Life's clay.

Why are some called away,
Their work incomplete,
Washed away
With the light shallow prints of their feet?

Why must some leave
Not even a trace
Of a mark, an impression
On Earth's vast wall space?

The answer, enigmatic,
Eludes us in part.
But the marks, indeed made,
Reside in each heart

That breaks for the castles
Of those who have gone
To paint their own sunrise,
Heaven's unending dawn.

*****
Dedicated to my cousin Andy (passed away in a car accident 2004 at age 22), and friends: Tommy, a high school junior (2005), Mr. Bruno, a beloved teacher only in his 50's (2006), and Owen, a high school senior, 3 months before his graduation (2007).