The Perfect Wave
 

Undulations of the Mother Womb

Sinuating, slithering liquid contractions

Roll towards us as we sit upon our boards,

Just beyond the shore break’s outer edge.


The water warm, a placental broth,

Supports us, as forsaken creatures of the land:

Uncertain prodigal spawn evolved through

Many patient millennial epochs.


The rhythmic sweep of steaming crests ignores us

Rushing ponderously by to crash in frenzied spray

Upon the pyroclastic lava of the shore that sits

Impervious to all but the progeny of eternity.


To sit so, floating out at sea, the smallest mote,

The merest, smallest speck of fragile, sea-borne matter,

Is to grasp the most rudimentary insight into life,

That all our human fears are groundless.


The brilliant flash of hope-filled faith,

That Mother’s fluidic coital, sine-like spasms

Will never end, bears us up with reckless belief

That all Her waves are sublimely perfect.


Just at that moment coincident, it seems,

The green mountains moving under us finally

Grasp our bodies, furiously sucking us up

Towards our respective unknown destinies.


Borne high on anxious, colossal liquid towers

Rising far above translucent walls of streaming spume,

That moment of briefest immortality we seek

Occurs and ends again, but also lasts forever.