Wet Sand

                                                                             

Walking along the wet shore,
I saw fine lines in the sand—
delicate borders, as if a canvas
had been stretched, waiting to be painted.

A few steps further,
footprints emerged—large, small,
even seagulls had left their mark,
scattered all over wet sand.

Further still,
I watched the waves arrive and retreat,
softly erasing some lines,
etching new ones in their place.

I paused.

"Hats off to the wet sand," I thought.
What strength it must take
to receive every impression—
and still remain soft.

My heart filled with gratitude.

One moment, I marveled at the beauty of those lines.
The next, I searched for them—
gone without warning.

Life, too, is like wet sand:
nothing is permanent.
Waves come and go,
leaving us with fleeting impressions,
each one shaping us
before it's washed away.

                                by  Sujata 

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