“and so castles made of sand, melt into the sea, eventually”
—Jimi Hendrix 

You are a sand castle
on the edge of the Atlantic,
“your wilderness,”
you told me. 

This ocean has watched you 

grow into a man
who loves to fish,
fill his pockets with shells,
hold up a shark tooth
like buried treasure, 

bring his own boys
to learn the contours
of the beach.

Each day is a wave.

Every hour
the tide rises.

First, your hair—
you pulled gray beard
out with a pinch
and showed me.

Then the pounds
vanished beneath work clothes,
taking your blue-collar bulk.

The tide keeps coming.

Then muscle,
the moat around the castle,
began to wash away.

The Atlantic still remembers you

casting your line into dawn,
bent over the surf,
watching footprints blur
with each pass  

looking for what it took
and left behind.