With sun and day, comes the warmth of the sand.
Night gives cold to the surface at first touch.
Fingers submerged, grains caress your hand.
Beneath, the day's warmth is felt very much.
You lift your hand, now free to move about.
Sand in your palm, you open your fingers.
Down come the grains fast, swiftly falling out.
The sand's warmth is gone, and chill now lingers.
Varying temperatures-hot and cold,
And the fast movements of each tiny grain,
Are like the moments that now seem so old-
Happy and sad-past times locked in my brain.
Never shall memories leave like sand-fast.
Tight is my grip on moments of the past.

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