The Beach

Seven billion grains of sand,

Washed on one hand by the sea,

The other bounded by the land,

The sand is where the sand should be.


Some grains taken by the wind,

Settling on arid plains,

Some drowned in the tidal deeps,

The border's where the rest remains.


Stretching down from dune to shore,

Reaching far as they can reach,

Each unique and singular,

Together though they make a beach.

Folded Notes ►


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