Tim Pilgrim

Breathing snow

You can do it awhile. Air pockets remain,
locked around ice crystals. But not forever --
just long enough to replay the avalanche

rolling over life, sweeping love downhill,
leaving you flattened in white,
no way to reach for sky. If your ears still hear,

eyes are not frozen closed, hand trapped
near face can clear a bit of space,
you may have sufficient time

to listen for swish of metal probes
slicing nearby, promising beams of light.
If tempted to sleep, imagine

a new lover finds you, scoops a place
by your side, lies close. Together,
you breathe hope into deep snow.



Smudging

Pick sage fresh at dawn,
still damp from dew.
Dry it flat in sun,
gray spray spreading like moth wings,
purple buds bulged, clouds above
gathering for their own ceremony.
Meditate until evening.

Focus on why your life needs smudging.
Include lies to friends,
lovers betrayed, tossed away.
Hope for no storm, enough time.
Crush each stem with both hands.
Pile the mounded bits chest-high.
Put your heart into it.

Strike steel with flint; make wild sparks
skip like lightning to the gray,
bring sage alive with fire. Pray smoke
curls in swirls so thick it cleanses even you.
Close eyes, breathe deep. Dream
of redemption. As night arrives,
forgive yourself, weep.


Timothy Pilgrim (a journalism professor at Western Washington University in Bellingham) is a Pacific Northwest poet who has published over 100 poems, mostly in literary journals and anthologies of poetry, such as "Idaho's poets: A Centennial Anthology" (University of Idaho Press) and “Weathered Pages: The Poetry Pole” (Blue Begonia Press).
 

Current Issue:
June 2014

Taylor Emily Copeland
Steve DeFrance
Mitchell Grabois
John Grey
Richard Luftig
Mary McCall
Simon Perchik
Tim Pilgrim
April Salzano

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