It doesn't have to be a lot
You could even lose something to a poem

Simple gestures of light and lifting rain
Shallow, knowing beauty hides nearby

Birds gathered on the nearby powerline
Just for some all-mighty small talk
To the crescendo of a setting sun.

The sun who knows us, little does he know:
How surfers feel his knowing just as well,
No words but the formal language of waves
They crash, they die the beautiful death.
Immortality hides in the water.
Profound words slip out, spilling, returning

water, like writing on a palm leaf
Left by the lifting rain.

We could have just surfed all day.

The waves and the rides they give,

Could it have been enough?