The Sandbox

The Sandbox

In a sandbox filled with yellowish crystals,

We sit with make believe creatures and cardboard pistols.

In poverty and penniless to which we were accustomed,

Unaware of each day’s sorrows, we did as instructed.

No money to speak of, but that wasn’t the thrill,

T’was our imaginations of that small patch on the Hill.

We sit filling coke bottles of glass with sand,

Making imagines, sand sculptures, that were not so bland.

A little water to stir, a pat here and there,

Each motion, each thought conducted with care.

It wasn’t much as others could see,

But on the Hill, it was enough for my brothers and me.

One brother, my elder, he led the way,

Sculpting not his talent, but I had nothing to say.

We filled the bottles with water time and again,

To see our sand art finished, our imaginary friends.

Figures laid upon wrinkles in time,

Artistic pieces of our childhood or so we thought.

Sandcastles, peasants, serfs, and even a dragon sublime,

Spending only moments in silence before they fought,

In our imaginary stories, those kingdoms we sought.

Fantasies swirled all around without a sound,

Through the trees, bushes, and even up from the ground.

Bringing to life things old and new,

Be it an old spoon, a rock, or worn-out shoe.

Whatever we had, that’s what we used,

In the sandbox, nothing was ever excused.

For each had a story, a moment of life,

In the Sandbox, we played without any strife.

Those were the days I remember the most,

No one there but us boys and mom as our host.

A shout of jubilation, a proud moment it was,

Figures all fashioned causing such a buzz.

Old age has overtaken my memories at last,

And I too, the same as those around me, alas.

No other has this memory I can bet you, I boast,

Me and my brothers with sand, bottles, and artists’ toasts.

By Dan R. Fowler

For Astrid