Were oceans’ waves measured in time,
To erode one?
Are the waves more efficient at some times of day than others?
Does the ocean feel “fresh” in the morning, after sleeping at night,
Ready to attack with renewed vigor?
Or is it a plodder that moves at the same rhythmic cadence?
What is the significance of the tides,
Other than the marking of water lines?
The dropping of driftwood and worn out seaweed bundles?
The sprinkling of empty exoskeletons and other detritus?
Is the beach only a burial ground for the dead coughed up by the sea?
The marginal place of repose?
Or is its artistry there to await observation?
What would I, could I, accomplish with these years?
Could I be as consistent, insistent, persistent —
As resolute at the assignment I’ve received,
Even though I’m not a swirling, pounding liquid?
Or am I merely a grain of sand,
One small speck in the endless tapestry created by the Master?
© Aug. 2009 by Michael Stubblefield