dreaming

The open window
a spring evening, blue-green breeze
I drowse in your arms.

The Game

Here is the circle in the sand.
I drew it--
filled it with shiny fragments: pebbles, shells, glass--
and waited for the tide.
At first it tickled the edge
then suddenly pounced,
razed the patterns,
pulled the fragments
back into the sea--
of course.
I stand shin-deep in salty water,
which sucks the sand
from under my feet,
while the tide comes in,
goes out.
Here is the circle in the sand.
Its outline remains,
though emptied of
its bright company.
Your turn.