Linda B. Gamble

He stands
toes clutching barely wet sand,
looks at the sea.

“Where are the little waves?” he asks.
“Down here,” I reply,
trying to move him forward,
but his eyes are glued
to the approaching breaker.
It roars to shore,
he sprints away.

Again we try
playfully stomp-splashing
at water’s edge.
toes inch forward,
tickling surf coaxes giggles.

Braver now, he advances
though still moored between us.
Squeals of fearful delight
pierce the thunder of wave’s roll.

By mid-afternoon he’s found his mettle,
boldly crouching,
leaning into each wave,
he dares it to knock him down,
pushes clutching hands away.

Lips blue and shivering
he resists as we carry
him to shore.