The Beach

Today I determined, from my hand, to make a child from common sand.

I grasped a bit of beach, so white.  I formed a man to my delight.

I gave him life, my heart-felt love:  Said, “I’m your father from above.”

I told him I’d take care of him and save him from sorrows too grim.

He took a wife, from sand was made.  They made love under the shade.

Soon there were scores of critters: boys and girls, from several litters.

They were my kids and it seemed right to shed upon them heavenly light.

And teach them all good things, things true.  I would show them what to do.

They lived at peace, they built towns.  I wiped their tears and smiled their frowns.

Till one day there arose a storm when calm and sunshine was the norm.

And many died, twenty in all.  Men, yes women and children small.

They asked me why I didn’t aid them for I am he who formed and made them.

But I was silent.  I didn’t speak.  Then disease befell them later that week.

They had the fever, the ague, the shivers.  Their face grew red with shakes and quivers.

“Why don’t you heal?” my son asked me.  “This is cruel, don’t you agree

  That you just watch while we all die?  Why don’t you heed our tearful cry?”

I knew I could if I had willed.  None of them would ever be killed.

None would ever suffer a loss.  For  why should they when I’m the boss?

But then the sun, it burned them, too.  It gave some cancer through and through.

“Why did you make us that the sun - would bake us so?” asked my first son.

“Why are my children going to die when they would not if you were I?”

But I had no real answer for him.  I suppose I made them on a whim.

I guess I forgot, nor felt the need to make them so they couldn’t bleed.

So I left them on the beach.  Their loud cries now out of reach.

They begged, worshipped, prayed to beseech that I would again visit their beach.

Maybe, yes, yes, maybe one day.  I will hear one of them pray.

Maybe again.  Maybe, I say.  In the future - but not today.