building or fixing a home - for the Third Son of Slam Contest
|That chilling touch...
A gust has blown inland from the sea,
running across my limbs.
Next, I hear echoes from behind;
trees are complaining.
Then, slate-colored ocean with briny scent
laps the rocks,
increasingly daring, dull gray water breaks and rolls.
Sandpipers, akin to caravans of gypsies,
take hasty steps,
intent on combing the wet smooth sand.
Stratus clouds slither overhead
like charcoal-colored cats
about to leap on their prey,
for villains are made to thicken the plot.
The rumor is,
a storm’s in the making.
As Mama sits nearby daydreaming
the impossible, Papa’s return,
I work to the rhythm of the surf,
pouring myself like cement
over a castle with turrets slanted.
Abruptly, dull thudding sounds pelt my ears,
a torched-linen sky tears apart.
Afterwards, waves rush in foaming, boiling;
towers, ramparts, the moat, and the bridge,
all in one heap,
a sad unity accomplished.
I squish the wet sand through my fingers,
and when Mama gathers me up,
I know I’ll build again.
Years later, to the same music inside me,
I plunge ahead and construct
many fine castles
of greater promise and beauty
for people I love,
each one a home,
with family intact.
And in silence,
on the same fabled beach with sea birds whizzing by,
I still work against many a storm razing,
trying to rebuild the same old castle,
my childhood home,
with turrets slanted,
fixing it with forgiveness