The Sand Sifter, 1st take

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.