A handful of sand
in the hand of the sifter:
ocean kissed,
edges smoothed by years of tumbling,
washed by salt water
until the single grains
have lost individuality.
It is up to the discerning eye
and deft hand of the sand sifter
to separate and categorize,
to assess and weigh;
each granule examined,
measured, magnified,
compared to a chart for colour,
composition determined.
The sand sifter deposits the white quartz
apart from the stain of red granite,
sandstone is tested on the Mohs scale,
black obsidian is in its own pile.
There is a mound of mica
reflecting hot beach sun
from its flat surfaces,
and bits of ancient shells
form a heap of mottled pinks and whites.
The sand sifter takes his time.
Ocean waves were not in a hurry
to create these minuscule beads of the sea,
nor is he quick to catalogue.
He is never sloppy due to haste.
He never fears running out;
there will always be more sand.
The sound of waves and surf on the beach
heralds a new delivery.
He can do this forever and probably will:
after all, someone has to.
