Pocketful of Grit

Cleaning out a jacket, forgotten in the closet's dark,

I found a trace of where my mind had left its mark.

A small, pale drift, collected in a seam, then caught,

and scattered on the linoleum, a memory brought.

From that weekend trip, the air so clean and wide,

the ocean's rough assertion, where the land met the tide.

Now just these few grains, on the kitchen floor they lay,

dull against the scuff marks, catching light from a gray day.

Proof of softness, of a sun I once did meet,

now gritty on the soles of my tired, working feet.

How easily the good things, slip and drift away,

leaving just this whisper, to mark a better day.