Tim Pilgrim
My only son
Midday sun lets me believe
I see waves retreat
in layers. Water fleeing moist sand
fearful itself of being
stretched flat to dry.
A final shadow on the dampness
conjures up my only son.
He sits brown,
cross-legged at ebb's edge,
humming in heavy mist,
beached shaman offering memories,
forgiveness,
a little salt. I wait breathless,
hope for a wave, another vision.
In its wake I suspect
it shall be him, alive again,
damp, salty,
chanting prayerful over me.
It is only by design
what I believe, I see.
Fresh graves in black sand
I lie beached, still,
prepare to gather hope,
in sun as if death
could not surprise me,
like kelp ashore to dry.
I guard a deep tidepool,
plan at night to save flesh
in bright shells. Fling back
those which are purple.
I will give them new life.
No tide can reach me here
or so I believe.
But night surf, without hands,
swirls in effortless,
scoops fresh graves in black sand.
Bio:
Timothy Pilgrim is a Pacific Northwest poet writing and teaching at Western Washington University in Bellingham, Washington. He has 50 published poems in a variety of literary magazines.
