The waves make me want to sway,
Something about the way they backhand
Their tides over the sand
And do not crash so much as allay,

Something about their salty foam,
Something about their deep measures
Hiding shells like treasures,
Embracing shores like memories of home,

Something about the way they push and pull
As if to prove that they never fail to come back,
And kiss the moment through its grainy track,
And how, tomorrow, they’ll be just as full.

The way they’re somehow getting pure,
The waves make want to spree—
The waves make the other me
(The longing one who’s in the moor,

The one who can’t tell January from June),
Glance now under my faded sun visor
To watch them get a little wiser
And give themselves up to the moon.