Woodgrain stick with rounded ends,
Pale and thin and digging
Sand; the granules stick,
Stuck, clumped in little dogpiles
Upon orange residue
Retaining a Sweet hint of
Vanilla, clinging to a tool of
Excavation in spritely hands
Buried deep in playful labor.
Meticulous, fanciful minds
Turn sticks to picks, fingers
To shovels, hands to brushes.
Grinding down, scooping up, shoveling out,
Piling high; Sand aside
To free satisfaction.
Miniature men gathered to work;
Small sand-encrusted explorers,
unearthing mounds of bliss
Unsought by men, but
Beloved of persistent boys
With a taste for the overlooked
Wealth of simple
Pleasures beneath sand-filled shoes.
Around them, these height-deprived
Masters of the sandy-craft,
Spins the world of monkey-bar mayhem, sidewinding
Slides, swing-set aerobatics, and
Freeze tagged statues;
Kickballs and basketballs,
Handballs and warballs,
Softballs and soccerballs buzz
To and fro across the sky,
Just above the ripples of hot
Pavement swirled with the bright green
Smell of grass. Over all,
Laughter and screaming, accusing
And scoffing, chiding and
Taunting. Slurs of noise, blurs of color
Racing about faster than the
Light can catch it.
Those elbow-deep in sand, however,
Know better; for pleasure is buried.
Under buzzing basketballs, beneath
The swings and slides,
Tucked away from grass and sun, hidden
In cool, moistened sand,
Like a treasure
Waiting.
To be discovered
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