Sand

Contemplating the future through a bucket of sand.

Our lives are short and full of sand
which shifts and trickles through our hands.
No longer can I take for granted
That tomorrow we shall not be parted.

We fill our buckets on the beach
With dreams and hopes we try to reach
But sorrow knocks on every door
The shifting sands are here no more.

These grains of sand like hairs are numbered
But bronzed and lazy do but slumber
Unaware that days like these
Will disappear upon the breeze.

Stella Jones