A Sestina

By: Aaron Endré

Thin vanilla clouds hang suspended above an ocean

of deep blues and greens.  Seaweed lifelessly floats

on the breaking shoreline.  In the distance a boy builds

a castle of sand and dreams as seagulls fly overhead singing

their song of hunger and despair.  In a moment his mother

will beckon for him to come back and leave this place of wonder.

He meditates on thoughts of his sandy kings and wonders

if his life was not unlike that castle.  His mother, a deep ocean

of false fears and regrets warned him. My mother,

he told his friends, is prepared for Y2K. But his words floated

away on the humid breeze like a frail song.

There was something growing inside him that she had built.

On what was his faith and trust in her built?

Had she spoken to him some truth? he wondered.

Maybe her fears were true and the singing

and praying were not for naught.  He peered at the ocean

in its endless existence and considered floating

to some exotic place and never returning home.  Mother

would find him though.  Perhaps his mother

would notice his sudden absence and would build

an armada of rationalizations and hopes that would float

about in her mind and offer her no solace. A wondrous

place the beach is, she would tell him. Calm oceans

and no worries.  He listened and marveled at the praises she sang.

The boy considered adding a cathedral for the singing

of hymnals that had once given him comfort.  Mother

would approve of that.  But it was late and the waves of the ocean

were already creeping past the towers and regal buildings

that he presided over.  To him, it was the eighth world wonder

already being destroyed by white foam that floats

on top of the surf like a thief stealing his dreams.  It floats

like he would float: endlessly breaking apart and coming together and singing

the tunes that Mother Earth had sung to him.  The sun smiled at him in wonder

of his accomplishment this day.  But the sun was tired and Mother

Earth was beckoning him too.  The boy stood back and looked at what he built

and watched as each piece was pulled back into the dark ocean.

One day you too will float away, past this beach and past your mother,

The dying sun sang to him.  I have seen what you will build.

They are many wondrous things, like drops in this ocean.