My son’s miniature footprints on the beach
make me want to write awful poetry.

Something about time moving forward
how many moons he has left to see

the power a grain of sand can hold
the miracle of a skimming stone

the infinite danger of the ocean
the infinite beauty of the ocean

how hand-holding will soon disappear
like the tide washing up miniature footprints

how waves don’t give a shit about all that –
they just dance knowing that they’re alive.

Carl Burkitt 2026