I watch a little crab a'crawling br Along the briny sand of an abandoned beach br His footprints are so fragile and quite fleeting br Obliterated soon by wind and rising tide br br I look down at my feet and hands now idle br While in my mind a thousand thoughts create br Word castles of great import and quite worthy br Not ready yet to be set down or seen br br And then I ponder tracks of that small creature br Whose purpose is much smaller than is mine br Yet he is busy living his intention br By making marks to celebrate his day br br A crashing wave now washes out the traces br Of trails and scratches made by seaside life br I jump up to avoid its drenching br Run quickly home to pen a line or two br br I'd rather write a mediocre poem br Than leave that perfect epic in that cave br Of hallowed thoughts and concepts undeveloped br Because the work is not yet flawless or precise br br I'd rather scribble transitory ditties br A gentle verse recorded on the wing br Of unremembered dragonflies in breezes br Of little consequence or import to the world br br I'd rather chronicle a cipher with no cadence br Recording textures of a gritty sea oats stalk br Instead of planning mighty contemplations br Not to be penned till all the t's are crossed br br For when I finally roll up my parchment br And fold my hands to form a final prayer br I'll be assured my pale imperfect musings br Have left a path of scribbles on the sand br br I watch a little crab a crawling br Along the briny sand of a forgotten beach br His footprints are so fragile and quite fleeting br Obliterated soon by wind and rising tide.