No way in

Timothy Pilgrim

 Something there is

         that does not love a window shut.

                 So I opened mine,

invited in sunlight, cry of gulls,

salty scent of bay,

         tide in retreat,

                 not sloshing rocky shore.

I left it open even during rain,

shivered, clutched tea with both hands,

         sought a bit of heat,

                 wished the whole coast inside --

gulls, salt, sea,

you leaving him for me,

         to put down doubt,

                 bow in concupiscent splendor.

I waited, alone,

watched shadowed sunbolts

         spin among clouds, dance past

                 the half-glassed-in solarium,

refract, bounce back,

make me understand

         neither tide nor sun

                 nor you

could ever come completely in.

So, in winter's darkest month,

         fingers cold,

                 I latched my open window

closed.

Timothy Pilgrim is a journalism professor at Western Washington University  and a Pacific Northwest poet has published over 60 poems in literary  journals and anthologies of poetry, such as Weathered Pages: The Poetry  Pole, Jeopardy and Seattle Review.