Borrowed Grit

The grit in my sock,

not beach-white, not clean.

Just small, grey-brown flecks,

a quiet, rough scene.

It clung to the fabric,

refused to shake free,

from a path miles inland,

a puzzle to me.

No ocean near here,

no waves to recede,

just this fine, patient dust,

a forgotten seed.

And I think of the moments,

the sharp edges worn,

how time scours us down,

leaves us quietly torn.

A persistent reminder,

what stays when it's gone.