Sometimes I wonder if the
Prints
On our hands,




fingers,






toes.
Show the path of our life,
A map of
our
very
existence.

Each journey unique to its
boulders,
hurdles,
impassible cliffs.



Each triumph with its own special flavor.



Each hope with its own glow of light.



Each love with its own burst of fizz.



Each breath with its own taste of life.

So sometimes when I sit
with my back warmed to the sun,
Tracing the lines on my palms,








feet,









soles.
I treasure each valley,
each divet,
each falter or break,
And remind myself
that the path
still
goes
on.