Poetry by Margarita Engle • Photo by Kees Terberg


The beach sand
we brought from Cuba
is no longer as white
and fine
as when it rested
on its native shore
engraved by tides
and the trident feet
of wave-shy birds.
There are no ghost crabs
in this dry sand
no salty roots of sea grape trees
or trails of passing moon snails.
All things age and change
even silica
even bone.

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