Moon Sand
Moon sand in a child's hand
Can become anything
A dream, a mountain
A slight hill, a bog
Rain pouring from the sky;
Transfere station loading
Trash high onto trucks;
Even a hugh landfill
How I miss the little
Hands that mold the sand;
The voice that brrrr;
Helping that truck
Get over that high
High hill, or out
Of that deep deep
Rut that he builds
Moon sand remains
Moon sand, but not
Little boys who grow,
Become boys in men's clothes
|