Morning on the Border

How it all manages to be
So repetitive while never
In the smallest part repeating

Perfectly’s perfectly baffling.
The desert sand grains all repeat,
The ocean waves repeat, repeat,

Forest roots and branches repeat,
Wayside rockfall gravels repeat,
The stars and galaxies repeat,

The patterns of your days repeat,
The long odds and the short repeat,
Yet nothing’s ever repeated.

You sit there, dazed in morning light,
Indecisive, likely to try
The same sorts of tries as always,

Resulting in the same results,
That is, the same sorts of results
Until run aground on some shore

Where the repetition of rocks
Or sand takes over from water,
And somehow it’s all only once,

Each little repeat only once,
Never actually repeated,
Hitting a border, then over.