MOVING DIRT
Long Summers on Cape Cod
A beach by the loop
At the end of the street
Hardly ever anyone there
Except for me every day
It was not raining
My entertainment was what
I could make of it
There was no little league or
Basketball games with friends
In the driveway back home
Just the beach and all the creatures
Who lived there with their fears and
Curiosities about me and me about them
It turned out I was fantastically bored
So I got my grandfather’s hoe from the garage
And built walls to hold back the tide
I toiled without the concern or commentary
From the adults who watched from afar
Only to see if I was still there
The quiet kid on the beach moving sand
After awhile I became another backdrop
And faded almost from view
Funny how moving sand morphed into
Moving dirt as I aged travelled
And lived in all sorts of places wanderers
Travel to and live in
Now chased by the fantastical boredom of work
And the material things that clog
Our time taking care of them
Some of mine were always tools
To shape and move the soil
Landscaping they call it
And as I move I leave behind gardens
Walks and ponds but it’s not about that
It’s about moving the dirt
Getting back into the groove on that beach
After all it’s not what it is
It’s what you make of it
