(Been pondering: Advance directives. Foot pain. Life - where I am on the timeline. This rolled out as notes a few days ago--I looked at it this morning and the poem wrote itself. )
Distant wave builds
rolling big, dark blue,
mirror of sky
barreling toward shore,
crests like white wings, lifting
then a big curl down,
pounding the sand,
chasing itself up to my feet like
an excited dog
slapping my toes,
circling ankles to calves
knocking me over
licking my face.
Each knock down, harder to get up
each wave a small death
losing power, thinning on shore,
reminder of my own small deaths.
I can no longer run or sprint, but
walk the beach, gingerly,
bones click and hurt, spurring.
Like the once bold ocean, crashing surf,
receding in small deaths
over and over again.