Waiting On Your Wings To Dry

The genesis of this poem is a prompt from a poetry certificate program, by San Diego’s first Poet Laureate, Ron Salisbury. 

Sitting in a low beach chair, you time the sets, sea and sky
a celestial blue.  You touch the switch to make your halo solid –
Renaissance style – and tilt it so your face is shaded.
Your long white robes are tossed on the sand by your
water-into-wine bottle.  You’re nearly naked but nobody notices.
 
Gulls land behind you squawking, eye your feathers with beady
eyes, turn their heads as if checking with each other – Us? Us? Us?
You rise and open your wings full size to shoo the birds away, then fold
them up and walk lightly into the water, shimmering with gold flecks.
 
Deeper you go until the waves knock you about. 
You tuck your wings tight and dive under, sand and salt
in your nose, rising with one eye open to check the coming swells.
 
Above the waves’ roar you hear yelling – a man and a woman
are running down the beach, shouting, “Jimmy! Jimmy!  Jimmy!”
 
The next wave slams you under.  You rise, feathers floating
in bubbles.  Far away a boy on a boogie board is carried by a rip.
 
As if body surfing, you use the next wave to slingshot into
the sky, wings spread to catch the updraft.  You bump a hang-glider,
breathe out to float him away, turn, fly fast following the rip current.
 
Scattering a string of pelicans, you dive for the boy – is he six? five? 
Human ages are tough. He’s small enough you can tuck his head
under your chin and murmur, “There, there.
Do you see the dolphins?  Let’s look for dolphins.”
 
Sure enough, a pod surfaces and races with you, leaping and
laughing, toward the beach where the Mom and the Dad
are crying, surrounded by lifeguards clad, barely, in Baywatch red. 
 
Closer to shore, kayakers wave their paddles and shout encouragement. 
A standup paddleboarder staggers, and you steady him with a wing tip.
 
You descend gliding, wings spread, like Jesus appearing to the lifeguard apostles
who cheer as Mom and Dad take Jimmy and cover him with kisses.
 
But really, at this moment you feel more like the Botticelli Venus.
                                                                                                           
Modestly accepting their thanks, you archly open and close your wings a few times,
scattering saltwater droplets, then walk to your chair, shoo the gulls away.
Glancing back, you see Jimmy raise his small hand in benediction.
Turning to watch the waves, you eat your lunch – divinity and angel food cake.