Tiny playful but decisive hand,
fingers grabbing warm moist sand.
A castle comes to mind,
attention-seeking sun declined.
Piling chunks with a shovel, bucket on the side.
Imagination grows, reality denied.
In other worlds golden towers reaching sky
emerge instantly under a strict approving eye.
Popsicle stick between thumb and finger
carving shape, noisy seagulls linger.
No being provokes a child’s distraction,
as trumpets call knights and king to action.
Tide reconquers beach from land,
small bare feet stroll seeking elder’s hand.
Ocean’s waves may erase a whole day’s endeavor,
unseizable castles prevail forever.
No tear is shed for what got lost,
true happiness isn’t bound to any cost.
Shaping sand is but a humble measure,
supporting endless times of inner pleasure.
