Beach Hands

I love the words that rhyme
with and. I put my fingers in 
sand, compress the grains
in my hand, and I look at 
the image of the ocean in
my ten year old eyes. The
waves and particles conspire
to light my way deeper into
the hole I am digging. Water
collects at the bottom of the
hole. The Pacific gathers the
top of my soul. My soles demand
an explanation: what is keeping us
out of the eyes of the sun?