I’ve learned something about love.
Somewhat overwhelmingly so, at times.
Or maybe it is that it knows no strangers.
Under a tiny sliver of moon in the sultry south I sit on a red-brick retaining wall, and ponder:
This joy that’s mine, this peace, this hope—
These become torture, when I recognize in the eyes of a stranger the fingerprints of pain, and I can’t do anything about it. Because as quickly as they come, they go…
And there are hundreds of them, and there’s one of me.
And I can only be in one place at one time.
But then I remember:
There’s just one of me, but then, there are the footprints.
They can’t go where I’ve not gone,
but they can stay after I leave.
Jesus, let me leave only prints You could claim as Your own…
I have only one life to live.