|Michigan, Clear Lake|
It's bitter cold out.
The wind is swirling across the frozen lake and picking up snow.
The fishermen I bumped into last night said the lake has eight inches of ice.
Winter wouldn't be so bad if the sky wasn't stained gray.
Thoughts of eighty degrees and a sandy beach are tempting. Walk with me on the warm sands.
Take your shoes off and let your toes curl between the grains. Let them tickle your skin. Press forward onto your left foot and leave the indented footprint behind.
A baby's breath sky is dotted with puffs of satin white clouds. Take a breath, a deep cleansing breath. Energizing. Thrilling. Yet, calming.
|Savannah, Georgia, Atlantic Ocean|
And now the quandary. Run along the sands or lie on the warm grains forming to the shape of your legs, back, head, and arms.
Distracted by the white sails of the pleasure ship bopping near the horizon, you choose neither, but stand, anchored to the ground fixated by the mystery. Where is the ship going?
A balmy breeze propels salt water, spilling it above the confines of the sea. A wave kisses a barrier, sending droplets airborne until they splash against your body. The response shiver causes a tremble and a giggle. The warmth saturates your pores, through the bloodstream to the heart.
Dreams and memories are etched into the mind, forever available to recall on a cold and blistery day.
So Reader? Where are the sands in which you stood?