So dear,

I have drawn a line lightly in the sand
Beyond the shoreline and broken shells
Where fingertips could draw shapes or not
In mountains dust made from weathered years
Now too well frisked and understood
For finger-painting, dot to dot.
Today, a heart is a heart like a spade is a spade
So the grievous escapades of yesterday
Are respectfully observed as one would a ghost,
And harms long past, undone and washed,
Leaves what is left, naked, and quiet alone
To hear the waves of acceptance cost;
So dear, what is found and what has been lost.