Making Contact

Fallen by the wayside
Like a wave receding
Retreating from contact
With the sands of the shore
Always taking a little bit of it
Away with it
And always leaving a trace of itself
To remain behind
As a sign that contact had been made
At least for a time
How ever brief
And meaningless
It seems
When you put it in the context
Of the concept of time
All this time
And the waves still make contact
Never wanting anything
In return