Sweeping out the Barn

What if a grain of sand could talk?

Oh, what stories would it tell?
Perhaps, a stormy night in Lake Michigan.
Swept ashore in the morning light

Clumped together with more like it.
All fresh & sparkling in the late moon light.

Mornings first light drying and cooling,
warming through out the high noon.

Then a wind brings flight, hurling it,
now whirling all alike.

Clinging to one another, grasping.
Some parting, going in all directions.

Now, resting on my floor, I see it.
and I sweep it out, to begin again.