The speaker stands at a moment of reckoning, seeing his whole life pulled backward like the great curling wave in Utamaro's image, as if time has reached a point where it can turn. Living and dying seem to run into each other, each one leading to the other. He pauses and looks over his own body, from navel to sex organs, a glance that takes in both where life begins and what keeps it going, and then moves out from the sea to the wider landscape of the world.
The poem ends on a quiet, steady note of acceptance. He knows he must leave the world, and the repeated "leave" makes the word feel like both an act and a legacy. What he leaves behind passes "to the children." The mood is reflective and calm rather than frightened, with a gentle sadness, but also a sense that life continues beyond him.