The Surf

The Surf


So constant
yet so changing.
Each wave different, yet
so just like the last, and the one to come,
and the one before that, and those
that will come tomorrow, and next season.

R---------R---------O---------O---------A-----------A----------R-----------R
whoosh….hiss…..roar….crash.….whoosh….hiss…..roar…crash

this water with which I’m enthralled at this moment
was last week leaving Bermuda
or perhaps Africa, or Antarctica
or was evaporating from some far-distant rain storm
to make its constant round-trip
to become this surf, at this particular place and time
just for my enjoyment, instantly vanishing yet
So constant.

St. Paul perhaps contemplated this very same water
in his exile on Patmos,
or maybe Columbus, when he saw the white caps breaking
against Dominica, paused in his duties of command
to wonder whence they had come.

R-------R------O--------O------O-------A--------A-------A-------R--------R
whoosh….his….roar….crash…..whoosh…..hiss…..roar….crash

It’s a microcosm of God’s world –
all so well-ordered and predictable
and in every moment a thousand miracles.