Friday, February 3, 2017


Remember our attic room that we loved so and spent many, many hours in when the children were younger?  It has appeared in one of Grace's pieces of writing.   If this poem isn't an advertisement for an open ended, play filled childhood, I don't what is...


The simplest object
A block of wood
Sanded beige sides
So pleasing to tiny fingers
Marred by scratches and dents
From when the dragon attacked
Or so we believed
The sound of them
When one met another
Loud and jarring
Yet we did it over and over
A 3 dimensional block of wood
That could become anything we wanted
Anything we could dream up
Any idea that came into our minds
We found ourselves

Playing for hours. Stacking and placing
These multi-faceted blocks
One turned into one hundred
As castles and cities appeared
On the attic floor
Lifeless objects
Seemly meaningless
Yet they meant worlds to us
Different dimensions
Filled with magic and pretend
A shape gave this to us
All that mattered
Was that we could build
The images in our heads
Bring them to reality
We lost ourselves

in those realms. We ran through
Labyrinths and mazes
Clad in feathery hats and bejeweled gloves
Strings of colored pearls
Hanging around our necks
While the blocks stood motionless
Oblivious to our delight
A symmetrical fortress
Unmoving and unfeeling
While we moved quickly
Feeling any and all emotion
They brought us joy
The satisfaction of building something
Only to be knocked down
By the dragon
In the form of a small boy
Lifeless blocks
In a heap on the floor

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