You are the warm sand on Virginia Beach
And the white water on the tips of the waves.
You are the green grass of the meadows
And the white clouds in the sky.
You are the eggs and the flour
But you are not the noodles.
You are the sails in the wind,
However you are not the mud between my toes.
And you are certainly not the lightning in the sky
The thunder in the night,
Or the wind rattling the windows.
But you may be the milk in my cereal.
It is possible that you are the scent of the hyacinth,
Maybe even the soft feathers of a duckling,
But you are not even close
To being the smell of puppy’s breathe.
You are neither the dead leaves of winter’s trees
Nor the melting icicles dangling from the eaves.
I thought that you should know,
When it comes to how you make me feel
I am the thorn on the rose,
The sap on the maple tree
And the spider’s web along the path.
I may also be the crust on the bread
But I am not the peanut butter in the middle.
I also happen to be the tuna in the casserole
But I am not the peas and the cheese.
I am the camera in the photographer’s hand
But you are the photograph.
You are all the pleasant memories
But you are never the bad dreams.
You could never be a bad dream.
You will always be the warm sand on Virginia Beach
And perhaps, you will be the water
As it washes the sand beneath my feet.