You arrived on the beach at dawn, after Easter Sunday.

Awash in death. No mother,  just mystery and sea.

The Shinnecock came with rattles and called to your spirit.

They said you were a baby, only a year old.

But the whale eye stared back through the surf.

Old as the universe. A singular stare

that watched black and foamy through the night.

Silent eye of our past.

Scientists came to euthanize you

but could not.  Lying on your side,

you stared into the next day.

Eye of our future. Watching us on shore.

The waves rocked your body,

yet your gaze was constant.

Some prayed. Some came to gawk.

Not seeing at all.

You were buried in the dunes.

Your blanket, the sand.

One day the wind will sweep the beach.

Bring back your bones.

Bring back the hollow socket

where your eye once watched.

Jennifer Rosoff is an artist and poet whose poems, photographs and paintings, predominately acrylics and mixed media, have been exhibited in various shows and published in several regional anthologies. Jennifer lives on Long Island, whose landscape is a continual source of inspiration.