A poem from 40 years past.
I turn to see my footprints in the sand
as wave after wave rolls in.
Now, here I stand, observing.
And though my footsteps be almost gone,
they remain, and perchance someone will follow.
But if someone sees my kneeprints
(suspecting I had stopped to pray)
would I have to tell them that
I’d only stopped along the way
to pick up shells?
Yet, even on our knees
with tiny shells there is great glory
and a doorway out of ourselves.
Puerto Rico, 1979
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