On the beach, my daughter is filling a void,
holding sand in one hand, letting it out a little
at a time, taking it apart, adding it up. She builds
a sand castle with dirty fingers to be an object,
a core sample of “the real” and the measurable,
while my son wrings the air in his fierce joy,
gull-stepping, like a baby-king, into the surf;
white crests lapping against his pudgy knees.
Each time he walks out, turns, comes in again,
the whole of what he is gathers in rhythm
with the water’s rush and ebb against the shore;
his body’s pure tumult, as he claps his hands
going out further each time, his motion the wave
his sister recognizes, rushes out to greet.
By Chris Banks