A wave has a start and a finish, a crest and a curve, but no name;
It is not called George, nor Henrietta, nor Tyrone.
It has neighbors, but not friends.
A wave begets waves, but has no kin.
And tells no stories of the waves before,
Of the time Grandmother Surge crashed into the octopus,
Or of the storms Grandfather Whitecap foretold.
A wave has a place and a time, but no permanence.
We do not secretly meet our lovers by the old wave.
We do not sit idly under its cover, in the shade of the breakers, whittling hours.
A wave is fleeting.

(I watch you watch as we idle on the beach,
Your eyes flickering to the next, the next, the next,
As strangers with buckets dig around us.
We have no name,
No kin who speak our name.
No place.
We will finish and the world will move on.
They will build their castles,
And never know I held your hand.)

And yet to the surfer floating,
It is the wave.
To the boat roiled,
It is the wave.
To the village crushed,
It is the wave.
To the bird diving,
It is the wave.
To the heart swimming,
It soars.
It crashes.
It rises.