our grandchildren build the sun colors the tree-trunked horizon
and slips up & up as I meditate in cold clear air,
before me, at the base of our maple tree,
a little village goes about its business,
the maple’s dropped twigs and branches first made into structures,
little brightly-clad figures added to populate the village,
a hickory nut half in a crack in the tree is an owl,
acorn caps are bowls for their parties,
ends of pine branches and broom sedge, trees,
for our grandchildren such a small world
can be conceived, created, and loved,
the creative magic in their hearts
ready to express itself in play,
in giving a smile, a drawing, a piece of self
to a parent, a grandparent, an uncle, an aunt,
we love to give them presents of time, & love, & thing,
and they love to get them,
it feels to me that they even more love to give them:
to connect, to build, to appreciate,
to create a smurf village,
and, even more, to create a world around them
as a microcosm of what they feel in their parents’ lives,
increasingly revealed to themselves and to us
are the gifts of who each is,
and who each is becoming.
by Henry H. Walker
December 28, ’11
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