A man stores away his heavy winter gear

in the second week of March.

“I’ve no need of these ‘til November at least.

Spring is here at last.”


He locks away down linings and microfleece,

with reasons to believe:

a skunk was in the trash last night

and he spied a robin on Tuesday.


He knows the risk; he knows it’s early–

March is most mercurial.

But the storing is a willing

and–if successful–

a double blessing.


A boy paces the shoreline in the afternoon,

considering his castle’s plot.

His creation must be free from foaming harm

or all he builds be lost.


“Ideal,” he decides and marks the spot with an X.

“No wave could reach walls built this far in, and

the sands are still moist enough for shaping.”


Parapets peak and spires shoot upwards,

Yet all the while the moon rises and

waves lap ever nearer.

But the building is a willing

and–if successful–

a double blessing.


A boy brings an empty bowl to the counter,

asking for a refill for his table.

No, his campers didn’t really

want seconds on peas,

but the girl in the apron doesn’t know that.


A pleasant greeting and feigned surprise,

a request, a smile, and a refill.

He left his seat and his cadre for this exchange—

certainly not the peas.


Eight red-blooded boys sit unattended at

their table in the dining hall.

Their counselor is fraternizing at the counter,

risking sabotage, risking disorder.

But the visit is a willing

and—if successful—

a double blessing.

March 16, 2014

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