14 | Building

Remembering (and longing for) the wildness of Spring

Building

I look but do not see;
Hear, but do not understand. (cf: Mt. 13:13)

My sons tackle each other down like brutes
From legioned battalions, pulling at roots
To hurl hand grenades of brown mounded dirt
While Edith commands the troops in a skirt
And Bene watches as a beetle shoots
From the grass to the sleeve of his shirt.
They’re building a treehouse, too (on the ground),
Pounding down scrounged up nails into wood
With big rocks or what else, lying around.
(I took the hammer. “It’s not for digging,“
But use that old baler twine for rigging.”)
They salvaged other building scrap like good
Apprentices from the building crew’s trailer:
Thomas hauls the load; Gabe’s the best nailer,
Though he was the first to blacken his thumb.
I wonder at times where their grit comes from,
And their wonderlust at every low thing:
A hillock of dirt becomes a massif;
A twig aground, a scepter of power.
A vassal clan runs our tiny green fief,
Defending our lands from the playset tower.
Their wild beating hearts make eternity ring,
And waken my soul, and make it to sing.