Always it comes when we least expect
it, like a wave,
Or like the shadow of several waves,
one after the next,
Becoming singular as the face
Of someone who rose and fell apart
at the edge of our lives.
Breaks up and reforms, breaks up,
And all the attendant retinue of
loss foams out
Brilliant and sea-white, then sinks
lovely detritus smoothed out and laid up.
And always the feeling comes that
it was better then,
Whatever it was—
people and places, the sweet taste of things—
And this one, wave-borne and wave-washed,
was part of all that.
We take the conceit in hand, and
rub it for good luck.
Or rub it against the evil eye.
And yet, when that wave appears,
or that wave's shadow, we like it,
Or say we do,
and hope the next time
We'll be surprised again, and returned
again, despite the fact
The time will come, they say, when
the weight of nostalgia,
that ten foot spread
Of sand in the heart, outweighs
Whatever living existence we drop
on the scales.
May it never arrive, Lord, may it
© by Charles Wright