Sand Boxed

Sand on which pilgrims walked
ocean in which sailors die
The wind comes over my face
leaving a mark of memory
but no real visible trace of history
thoughts that fill my mind
of how I am from the Southern lands
but the original settlers were near
ancestral homelands
and these New England shores
could as easily have become
New Portugal or New Spain
and all the new borders are
as real as we make them
jumbled in with religion and war
so now sitting
on these white black and red pebbled sands
I feel left out
moments angry
that my history is not on these tourist book pages
not at all except for the history
I make as I walk about the sands
millions of tiny pebbles sifting
through my determined feet
a personal history
a little bitter
a little sweet.

Cape Cod, September 2007