Long sandy beaches at sunset -- poets love them. People with sore feet don't. Another of life's epic dilemmas: To listen to the sand out here or not...?
Early October evenings along a city beach can do this to you. To the left, black-blue waves; to the right, Chicago skyline; in front, zig-zaggy lacework of footprints in the sand. Time to play poet.
One trail of prints so tiny and flibberty-jibberty you can just see her blond-haired gaze up to her daddy's large arm guiding her little steps. Over there another trail, not of steps but bounds as this bicep-ed Adonis ran the sand. Further on a foursome of feet marking where a pair of lovers watched the waters.
Well, at least that's what I see. Remember, I'm new at this!
I'm guessing what poets find out here at the end of another day of the world trying so hard, is an impressionist mural which marks where part of that world walked this day. Walked and talked, dreamed and feared. True, we don't live on beaches; but we do occasionally come out here to catch our breath. And our thoughts.
Thoughts maybe like: Where did this day go..? Where did this week go...? Where has my life gone...?
I don't know how accurately I'm hearing the sand out here. But I do know this. The sands of time flow faster and faster the older and older we grow. When you stand back and size up that great ocean of national and global events lapping the shores of your life -- well, I can't help recall that country-western-church lyric by Vince Gill:
"Let this be my solemn vow/ to take each moment/ and live each moment/ in peace eternally/ let there be peace on earth/ and let it begin with me."
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