Walking, the harbor tourist crowd watching feet, Too many to count, always in pairs, old feet, young feet. Noticing shoes, canvas, leather, plastic, Sneakers, moccasins, three-point flaps, strapped sandals, Birkenstocks, jelly kid shoes, waffle-soled boots, reef runners, Buffalo thongs, roller blades, open toes, open heels, bare skin, Legs, calves, shins. Everybody, everything moving, going Somewhere while my father is dying. Cool wind blowing along the harbor esplanade ruffles the water, Fracturing sunlight into crisp meteoric reflections of afar Over the water, distant mountains rise silently into the sky Timeless crooked skyline weaving unbroken design Of rock, of crag, of cliff, of rugged precipice, All the while erased by wind, dust, water. Wearing stone into sand, into streams, into the sea, As my father's life drains into space. My father's shoes, filled with the sand and dust of a lifetime, Broken down mountains of eternity mingling between his toes, History has worn out his feet, the spring is gone from his step. Now he walks slowly, if at all. Time, dust, water, moving like Shoes without feet, spirit without body, space without form, Movement without substance, on the blue ocean of time, his Groundswell rising, cresting, breaking. The tide, his life Ebbing. Nothing else to do, I watch feet.

Copyright © 1994 Swagazine, All rights reserved.