suddenly, solid as a second chance,
asking me to unseal his sand art kit.
My forgetful fingers hold his fragile,
awkward heart, and pour, pour.

I funnel & fill with tiny, trembling tools
as if hollowness can be painstakingly
flooded with beauty. Yellow sand lingers
like faded lane markers in our rutted table.

I furiously pack down, seeking some strong,
smooth surface for piling my imperfections.
I consider the close cork of completion, how hurtful
hands & misguided movement might spoil our perfect pattern.

On tiptoes, he loops the lovely glass cavern on
an excited axis of short arms. I am heavy
with hope to delay the inevitable shifting,
wanting to enclose more, more.

Jennifer Edwards is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and preschool Speech-Language Pathologist in NH. Her writing appears in Portrait of New England, The Poet’s Touchstone, The Ekphrastic Review, and Headline Poetry and Press. She’s a poetry reader for Mud Season Review. She’s reading in her yard or on social media right now. Twitter: @Jennife00420145