Brushing curls from my daughter’s eyes,
I help her see. I am her mother:
I show her everything.
When her bare feet touch the sand
she takes off
after an antelope,
to get the highest plum.
Atop the empty lifeguard stand,
her heartbeat hails the ages;
her skeleton sings of prehistory.
I have to wrestle her down.
Can’t she understand
Wind bends the seagrass,
lifting granules from the dunes
and returning them to oblivion.