In Sand Blades between grains, you soft grip buried, time seeping light, sifting through like leaning silver — the blurred image we hold weaknesses, transparent—, establish the luxury, along the glossy grass-crowned hill, or drown where defiance meets speculating halos—pure, fluid — nature speaks of self, a plume of the curls, a sensation of time piercing through, hands clasp to life.

• Mina Loy