I watch him anchor the hammer:
blue-plastic handled,
black-plastic peened,
brown-plastisized tool belt.
Then the Playskool wrench,
screwdriver, pliars –
all too big, too light. Or
he too slim, too slight.
I refold a washcloth many times
watching him.
My grandson’s imagination bolting together heights:
hutch for Run Away Rabbit,
bridge for Ducks in Muck.
He is preparing his storied world for more,
creating new habitats for the unmet.
I fold the washcloth again; he finds
a space between diaper and skin
for a second hammer,
a toddler pocket for fat plastic spikes
and waddles my way, prepared
to undo the folded cloth and read it
as if a fortress blueprint
in a yet to be made new world.
~
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Comments: 4
Your poetry is a magic window into my imagination. You masterfully bring this child and his world so preciously constructed by his grandmother into an architecture of wonder encompassing the present as well as the future. I'm charmed and awed at the same time.
Featured on Poet's Weekly Muse!.
thanks for reading! and thanks for the feature.
Wonderful little glimpse into childhood make believe