“In Sand” began as a quiet dare to write something I was willing to lose, the way the tide takes whatever we trace into the shore. I wanted to set love and hope in a place that could never promise to keep them, and listen for what remained when the water came back. Somewhere between that surrender and the next small wave, the poem found its breath.

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In Sand

In sand
I saw man plaguing through sand,
hysteric laughter spilling from cracked lips
as he pitied every step
he could not make alone.

Preparing words dressed in borrowed strength,
calling on the Lord Almighty,
yet ashamed to lift his eyes.

In sand I saw nothing but praise—
strange praise,
born from breaking.
And I was shameful to ask Him for help.

How does this corrupt motion seem so right?
Why does my failing feel like flight?
What chance does my soul find to rejoice
while my flesh resists the fall?

The sand swallowed pride first.
Then certainty.
Then fear.

And when I sank to my knees,
the ground no longer fought me.
It held me.

The laughter softened—
not madness,
but mercy.

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I wrote this in the quiet knowing that the sea would take every word, as if these confessions were never meant to be kept. If you hear a whisper in the gaps between the lines, it is only me, still kneeling in the sand, trying to trust what will not stay.

— Author’s Note: I wrote “In Sand” knowing the tide would erase every syllable, the way time erases almost everything we swear is permanent. Still, I wanted these lines to breathe for a moment, to prove that even fragile words can hold us while they’re here. Maybe that is all our independent, original stories ever are in Letters from Xhale: brief shelters we step into before the water comes.