Skipping Stones

Such stones exist for skipping from the shore
which shaped them by its rough and gentle tide,
where form and polish build to this rapport
a father and his son stand side by side.
They search among the millions for one stone,
perfection, or as near as it can be.
The father notes how fast the boy has grown;
the son is lost in searching reverie.
Then suddenly the perfect stone appears.
The father picks it up; the son approves
the smoothness of a thousand smoothing years,
and with a fluid fling, how swift it moves.
Three skips create their ripples with each kiss;
the stone slips back into the blue abyss.

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A Runner’s Strength

I’m strong when I am pushing back the road
beneath my feet, along my chosen course.
My legs engage by trying to explode
along the muscles channeling their force.
I’m strong.  I feel the metal in my veins;
my heart’s a forge, my pulse a tempered beat,
where iron is refined and what remains
is strength of will to match unyielding heat.
I’m strong enough to run until I feel
the surge of one last lap before I’m done,
that makes me draw my breath like sharpened steel
and run the lap, and then another one.
And though I doubt there’s any race too long,
I have no doubts at all that I am strong.