Willings

I.

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.

II.

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.

III.

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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