The Marching of Time

Life marches on. Sometimes we're the tassel in the cap, dancing in the breeze. Sometimes we're the insole of the tuba player's shoe.

Missed Opportunities

By Stephen Caldwell
7/17/08

The footprint held its place
In the sands of time,
Patiently awaiting its demise,
And peering toward the coming tide

Nearby, the shell,
No small one, this
A treasure for its size and purity
Hiding quietly in the soft, wet beach

The other shells,
Dozens and more,
They wash further in,
Some break or crack,
While others stay whole
And make their way
From sand, to hand, to pocket, to bowl

They have their beauty,
Their story to tell,
And, while small, they tell it well
Along with all the others in the bowl

The bigger shell could be that bowl,
Wide at the mouth
And deep, deep, deep
Like the ocean that spit it onto its beach

And there it rests,
Catching its breath,
Its humpback sticking up
Just inches from the footprint

They say nothing,
The footprint and the shell
Time approaches with the swell
And then it comes
And then they’re gone