-- for Jorge Luis Borges

I planned a trip in respite of remembrances
But foresee a sparkle in the wit of sand
And in dust clouds that whisper your name;
Whose shores seem to strain under so few feet,
Where I had planned a vacation, a family trip
With two small kids, a dog and a wife,
The former who will scoop the grains of silver sand
As if they were infinite-- which in fact they are;
That all is just a sampling:
The whirling dust of dessicated snowflakes,
Sacred stone and whirling silver swords
Crusted over with your blood of Buenos Aires,
Perhaps no different than my Brooklyn Beach
Pulling at these time-worn soles. Perhaps
They'll come to know leisure and genealogy
Mixed with plain hard work, as I watch them
Rebuilding castles just washed away.
I will unearth an ancient sense of whimsy
Watching Chris and Livvy scoop it up
In closely cupped hands; I hope they'll wonder
Without too much concern and wasted care--
But with simple veneration and silent bliss--
At all that sifts through their nimble hands.