Not the Least

The tides, the swell and rising,

crest and curl, the crash,

the whitening trough receding.

I watch the restless crawl

of each unwelcomed guest approaching-

one by one, by one

their heedless pawing meets the shore

and goes ungreeted,

each in turn retreating,

all their passion spent.

It doesn't go unnoticed, not the least,

the likeness in our sudden rise,

the smallest swell preceding.

Our body's quickened crest,

and just as soon

its downward curl to swift decay, and pale,

our passion spent.

And just as every crested wave

that crashes crumbles to the shore,

each surrendered drop asunder

lone departing swift

to join the sea from whence it came,

so our bodies failed and wilting, withered

make their mute return to dirt and dust,

our sundered soul departing quick

to dwell where once conceived;

To places far more vast than oceans,

far more deep.

To one day rest within the gentle hand

whose fingers molded every curve and crease,

to glimpse the brow that thought our laughs

and wrought our dearest dreams.

Return,

as every wave that crashes

swift retreats to where it once began.