A Place Put Together of Wave and Sand

When I was growing up, I used to visit
My aunt and uncle’s home set high on a cliff
Above the Pacific shore, and lying in bed
I heard the pulsating sound of waves enter
The night, as if signaling to me an order
That I could only observe, not know, yet an
Order that desired purposeful attention
To the regular beat of those sometimes rolling,
Sometimes smashing, sometimes lapping waves.
Alone, I could feel the energy of each piece
That came together—wave on land in rhythmic
Perfection, and I understood even then
Those waves would always, and unfailingly,
Strike the shore, no matter how wide or high
The foam. I did not doubt this surety
Would ever belie the tenacity of a presence
Which had put together the power of wave and sand,
But had I known how the vicissitudes
Of life would take me from this place, I would
Have stayed forever assured of continual
Existence. These insights did not come at once,
Unless I would have understood that sound
As an order infusing all that I have done
And yet shall do, for to remember this place
I have only to conjure up the distinct
Rhythm lapping against the Pacific shore.