the sound of
children running
is like a string
of branches
being brushed
by winds
excited voices
and the breeze of
feet over the sand
discover
each shell a
treasure
each stone
a beginning
of remembering
even years later,
when the shell
and stone
on a desk
or window sill
pulls at
the pause within
where reason
holds the
order of
disorder,
the common
thread
unchanged