His love was white.
The color of purity,
            innocence,
a lace veil,
a blinding snowstorm
with no dirt peeking through.
My love was red.
The color of the heart,
            Chrysler Imperial Rose,
hot coals in a beach bonfire,
slickened bathroom tile
when gaping wrists pump.
            Red and white mix
            to dull, tainted pink.
            I made him leave.

When our family moved
From the north to the south
She complained
"Damn sand gets into everything"

We carried granules home in britches
Walked in hourglass shoes
Crunched seashell grist in food

Beach far behind me now
Living back in a land of changing seasons
Those words haunt me
As I spin on ice
Watching road
Snow bank
Road
Snow bank
Through my windshield

My hands turn the wheel
In the direction one would drive
To pull out of a sand slide
Which happens to be
The exact opposite motion required
To regain control of a car
On ice