I trace your name in sand. My fingers follow
the gentle curve of the G, twist of the R,
quick-dance of the A. Soft, distant wind
muddles your edges. The grains bury themselves
in the crevices of my fingernails, coarse reminders
of the way my fingers curled like roots in the
forest-green threads of your sweater,
planted somewhere in the soiled recess of my mind.
No matter – it’s all ground to dust now.
The wind breathes your letters into oblivion.
I sweep my palm across the mandala,
green sand mixing to grey. What’s left
spills over, dusts the welcome mat.
My boots still crunch each time I come home.