Riptide

The trepidatious white foam of the tide
Reminds me there is infinitely more to me
Inside.
A concept adrift on currents presently,
The I of I swam out too far and died,
Henceforth to be washed up
On the other side.
A place far across the sea.

How is it that the me of me came to be
Sans compass, navigation,
No stars or iron with which to guide
Or plot my course?
It was nature's judicious
Show of force,
That which the tremulous foam belied.
I found myself trying to rely
On instinct, but to no avail.
The "why" of it is less form than function.

To the credit of the tide
It has taught me
I must come to see
The I of I, the me of me.