History in my hand

Watching the sun start to sink
I wonder how many before me
have also sat upon the beach
and waited for the end of day.

Digging my hand into the sand,
I think about what sand is made of:
dirt, skin, crushed shells, washed
ashore by the waves for thousands of years.

Sitting there, by myself,
I imagine all the sunken ships and their treasure,
the generals and kings, buried and decayed,
falling into the sea to be transported here.

Holding in my hand, fragments of our history
I consider my earthen vessel,
one day to join these heros and cowards,
to mingle my dust with theirs
and join eternity.