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The Pull of the Tide

November 30, 2014
By Lydia Bashor BRONZE, Ben Lomond, California
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Lydia Bashor BRONZE, Ben Lomond, California
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Dearest uncle,
Although your soul has long been washed away,
Your image crashes over me constantly in waves.
Even though the tide lowers, it always rises again,
A cycle of swirling acceptance and grief.

Dearest cousin,
Although our waters rarely crossed,
The creatures of the deep refuse to let me forget you.
They flood me with stormy memories
And ensure that ripples of you remain.

Dearest grandmother,
Although the sun set on your horizon too early,
I still spot your face smiling with the moon
In the fractured mirror of the water’s surface.
I feel your embrace in the pull of the ocean,

And I resist plunging down to meet you.
 

© Harrison L., Ruston, LA

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