Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

My gratitude to Editor Michelle Ayon Navajas for publishing my fable. I imagined my dad playing on the shore of Lake Michigan just outside his home in Escanaba, Michigan, way back in late 20s. He was an only child. I always loved visiting my grandparents and playing on the same beach in the 50s. The hot sun burned our backs into blisters. The beach grass could cut our feet. I feared the water and would only wade in it. Maybe I sensed Ceto, not the lake weeds, tickling my toes. In the 60s, we lived in the house for a year while Dad completed a Master’s in Theology at Princeton. At that time, the lake had receded for miles, and Dad blamed Chicago for using up the water.

Here is the beginning of the poem. I invite you to visit Hotel Masticadores and enjoy the rest of the poem…

The Battle of Lake Michigan

The Great Lake’s waves swoosh
into his parents’ backyard.
Go count the sand crystals on the shore, they say,
for he is too loud.

The sandy yard, the prickly grass, 
the lake water stirred gray by churning sand.
With the sun bearing down 
on his raw skin, he digs for jewels, smooth

glassy stones, and sparkling granite rocks
for his hoard hidden in the reeds.
Beguiling waves cool the heat 
of the sand between his toes. 

Too tempting, the rich, alluring depths.
Can I float? Swim to Chicago? I can! 
Ceto hears him say. 
Something nibbles, bites his legs……..

The Battle of Lake Michigan