"his feet in the sand..."

when he was just a little boy
my brother didn't like to have his
feet in the hot, dry sand of summer,
he would tiptoe across the beach like
a tiny sea cricket until he reached the
cool wet sand at the water's edge...

and then,
he would let the foamy, brackish surf
curl around his ankles and wash under
his toes and through his arches while
he steadied himself against the push and
pull of the the sea's ebb and flow...

gaze transfixed on the horzon, where
water blended into sky and light...he would
dig his toes in deeper and deeper until
the sand reached above his ankles and the
cold seawater splashed against his calves...

he was not a boy who ran in and out of the
waves, he did not build tall castles out of
sand, or bury his sister in a deep hole until
she wriggled herself free from the softly
smoothed hills and valleys above her small
frame that cracked like a sandy chrysalis...
he knew it could not hold the butterfy
she would become...

but my brother focused steadfastly on the horizon
with his feet in the sand, and his eye on the
edge of the sea, watching for the tallship
with brass fittings, teak decks,
and salt-bleached sheets that snapped in
the wind...  waiting patiently for the
life purpose, the dreams, he would sail one day...