Count of Waves

© 2001, Carl Thomas Gladstone

How long could I sit here in my feigned sovereignty
counting up the vast blue and irregular waves
as they crash here on the shore right in front of me?

How long could I sit here counting waves?

How long could I sit here watching boulders shrink?
Dropping grain after grain after grain
until the waves crash down and they do it all again.

How long could I sit here counting waves?
Until my hands seize into claws?
Until my nimble body goes taut?
Until the sun turns my rigid skin to dust? How long?

How long could I sit here—imagining God out on the horizon,
riding some thick cumulus, while these waves approach my feet?
They splash, shush, and rasp against my counting.

How long could I sit here counting waves?
Until my eyes ancient windowpanes crack?
Until my weary body succumbs beneath the sand?
Until the tide returns and mingles with my bones? How long?

How long could I sit here in my feigned sovereignty,
as my world crumbles around me?
While these vast blue waves splash, shush past, crash, clap,
they whisper, they whisper, they rasp “I am here with you.”