Prints on the Sands of Time

A hand pressing on sand

We have all heard that when God did create:
On our palms, was inscribed our fate.

I do believe

We’ve seen ink on the palms of the writer;
Felt the sweat while shaking hands with the hard worker;
There is blood dripping from the fists of our soldiers;
That mud and dirt are caked inside the farmers’.

The mothers’ palm has tears wiped away from her child’s cheek;
While the pain and hard work of which the fathers’ wouldn’t speak.
Stifled with a single finger – secrets have lived on, in the sister’s lips;
With nothing but pride remaining, the brother fights his imaginary ships.

The smell of the rubber glove is all that is left on a seasoned surgeon;
The baker has but the feel of flour left over from an apron;
The barber owns the soap left from the one who walks clean shaven;
The teacher brushes off the chalk as she walks away from her haven.

The mechanic possesses the slick of the oil which does stain;
The chemicals in the film is the photographer’s frame;
Salt water is held long after the fisherman returns from his domain;
And the feel of a loved one, always in memory will remain.

I could go on and on about what we love leaving its mark
that is part of our life – our very own creative spark.

We have all heard that when God did create:
On our palms, was inscribed our fate.

I do believe that our blueprints may already be in place;
Yet our place is not defined by the lines enclosed in a five finger space.

For after all: it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.


 A 270-word poem, and here’s to wishing my blog on its second year alive 🙂 Not exactly its birthday, but actually its birth week.

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