Three days past the last rain, the creek sings in a lower key, like a boy turning into a man. Free of silt, it’s learning how to be blue.



    He stood on a box when he eagerly squealed
    “ ‘Lolo! Come, help me build a castle! Come!”
    Not the usual sulky, sullen, silence slicing
    through the interloper who has come to retrieve
    his doting abuela. His jaunty leap toppled
    the box of Lego blocks spilling helter-skelter
    amid clucking cuidado-warnings from her
    who wondered what kindled the stripling elf
    into this challenge that bewildered him who
    seemed to dodder with the lilt of entreaties
    rushing out like a burst of rainwater dammed
    on a creek, now freed of flotsam and debris,
    now on a lower key: Please, ‘lolo? Please?

    Gingerly, the hapless dotard plugged holes
    with stubby poles, while the littlest builder
    yelled design demands shrieking with glee
    that soon enough he will grow a castle out
    of his dreams, tall on the rug by the fireplace,
    and he shall have his throne, and cars galore.
    Like all grandfathers before him or after,
    he chuckled a praise for the boy suddenly
    turned to a builder-man: Good work, hijo mio!

    Under his breath, he also lisped a wistful
    plea to the walls around him or whoever
    could hear an old man’s prayer:
    Please, let him build them strong, and not
    destroy; and for my nieto jovencito, to never
    forget that there are grander castles in the air.
    Please, let him grow like the creek,
    when freed of silt will turn to clearest blue.
    O, let him flow like the river and find his sea.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    Mississauga, Ont. 03-03-11

  2. Hi, Dave,
    Please fix on 10th line, first stanza:
    seemed to dodder… (notnot “seem”). Tense consistency. Thanks, amigo.

  3. No Two

    Days past the last rain and the creek
    sings in a lower key, like a boy turning
    into a man. The water’s clear, learning
    again how to be blue. The minnows know
    how pebbles make a splash then eddy,
    no two marks ever the same. The girl
    who used a stool to clamber into bed
    last night it seems swings her long
    woman-legs over in the morning.
    And then before you know it
    they’ve gone away, leaving the braided
    grass, the tire-marked lane, the rusted
    gate that creaks in the slightest wind.

    – Luisa A. Igloria
    03 03 2011
    Sent via my Blackberry

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