The Waves
On the
beach, my daughter is filling a void,
holding
sand in one hand, letting it out a little
at a
time, taking it apart, adding it up. She builds
a sand
castle with dirty fingers to be an object,
a core
sample of “the real” and the measurable,
while my
son wrings the air in his fierce joy,
gull-stepping,
like a baby-king, into the surf;
white crests
lapping against his pudgy knees.
Each
time he walks out, turns, comes in again,
the
whole of what he is gathers in rhythm
with the
water’s rush and ebb against the shore;
his body’s
pure tumult, as he claps his hands
going
out further each time, his motion the wave
his
sister recognizes, rushes out to greet.
By Chris Banks
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