Desert.

The beach today will whistle
like an open desert with the wind.
Children’s toes and cheeks and noses will grow red,
and their ears will ache from its roar,
while my head lies on your sleeping chest,
that rises and falls with a slow,
Sunday morning laziness.

The sheet is gritty from yesterday’s sand,
when we sat on the flat, open plain
and you rested your head on my shoulder,
grazing my cheek with yours.
We silently built sandcastles
then laughed at our efforts.

Sitting together,
watching the rippled sea glitter
like an excited thing
in the weak heat of the spring sun,
I looked across the blinding beach,
at the endless horizon,
and remembered scraps of the past.
Lost kisses underneath willow trees,
hands that were clasped tight, receding,
the people who had disappeared
until they were memories
and letters once a year,
which in turn slowly faded.
I felt the future with fear.

But you kissed my head
and all the past disappeared.
My heart leapt for the summer.