**
We didn’t touch the beach this year,
but summer has its sands,
dusty empty ghosts of things
that slip straight through your hands.
The asphalt bakes, the grass still roasts,
the air still simmers on,
but ushered, summers pass and leave us
wondering where they’ve gone.
Each afternoon goes thick and slow,
each tick heroic struggle,
but piles and piles of whats and ifs
don’t flinch before the shovel.
We didn’t touch the beach this year
but summer has its sand,
and summer’s sands pass mist-like quick,
then sift back into land.
**
Good imagery! 👍🏼