Sand

I hold it in my hand.
Rough, coarse sand.
Eroded by a million years or more.

How, I wonder, does it stay so
subtle, when the wind
blows it everywhere, anywhere.

and yet it remains, eternally here.
As Time dictates it to do so.

A season passes.

I hold it in my hand
Soft soil, aged and grown.
A purpose that only Time will allow.

Creation in the midst of nothing.
Life from what does not live.
How? Only Time will tell me.

Another season goes.

And I hold it in my hand.
The first snow fall comes
giving me something as unique as everyone else.

each flake, another form of sand
Pure, with a life so short.
melting away from meddling hands.

Is it the human existence,
to be like snow. Pure, cold, friendly, comforting.
Unique and perfect, melting from the slightest touch?

Or is it one that grows, from nothing
from everything, a Giver of Life.
A giver of a future paradise. From the fruit of rich soil.

Maybe, perhaps, sun beaten sand?
Eternal, blowing around on a breeze, hard, strong
Coarse, and unwavering, forever persistent.

or a combination, of all three?
Another season passes, as I wonder of my life.