Broken sand and shells disappear under a frayed, capped ocean:

smooth-edged clouds shade cypress trees from the sun,
as endless seams of waves float ashore.

I hold dull berms or seeds to bury in the loam—
washed in afternoon; screened dark clouds
hover over the wave-lined ocean.

A cloud is only water risen.

I am water and desire to be a cloud again;
drifting in wind blowing tomorrow’s waves
over shadows that settle between waves
and the time it takes to return.

For sand:

there are only waves of white and gray water,
footprints or the sun.