Again, the wave.
The softening. The scrubbing
away of whoever I think I am.
It does no good to wish
it would stop. Everything returns.
Erosion is not a curse.
It is the way the world works.
We build ourselves up
only to lose what we build.
There is no real loss in this.
The sandstone returns
to sand before returning
again to stone. All the grains
are accounted for.
There is no thrill in counting.
We break down until
the breaking down is done.
I try to not plan the rebuild.
For now, grace in the breaking,
grace in the way the waves
of loss move across me
until I am smooth, until
I can move with the waves
and let myself be led, until
there is nothing left to do,
even the wishing gone.