The image there in front of me

The vision

not planted but

there in front of me

of what was.

Sand spreading across the image

filling the frame and stretching

far beyond.

Does each grain remember?

Pulling a tiny lyre from a bag

perched on its tiny grain back

to sing the song of what was?

Melancholy now but not then.

Then it was filled with hope.

Filled with a vision of what could be.

But the sand sings of the melancholy

not the hope that was.

As the sand continues to spread

singing its sad song.

I remember.