The Sand Dune Teacher

I watch my teacher
ahead of me —
he walks
up
and down
the golden dunes.
Sand trails from
the hourglass of his hand.
We’ve walked so far
that I can’t recall
his face. Weariness sits,
a shroud on his shoulders.

Even so, I did not expect him
to pause,
mid-dune —
he never paused mid-dune —
and half-turn,
towards me.
Sand whips my cheek,
words suffocate the arid air.
He is leaving.

He can’t walk the dunes
with me,
with anyone.
Not even by himself.

He sinks into the quicksand
of the creeping dusk.
There is a raw moment,
a fissure,
before I start to walk
up and down
the flickering dunes,
chasing the fireflies
ahead of me.