The urge to play is somehow innate.

Shown intriguing ideas, our hands never
outgrow their eagerness to touch, handle,
maneuver anything low enough to reach;

their need to dabble, to stow pebbles
in pockets, to pluck and blow floating seeds
across the meadow of possibilities;

their impulse to inspect every shadow,
to explore below the surface, to toy with
how building blocks of wood or stone,
particle or wave, grow into structures
of willow or tower, flower or rainbow;

their urge to examine process, to borrow
parts and pieces from elsewhere, to bestow
alternatives, to prove what’s best for now
can be bettered tomorrow by an inch;

their instinct to tinker, to throw a wrench
in the works, to slow the world to a stop,
just to show it can turn a different way;

their drive to unlock power for change
to see if life can flow more smoothly.

Humans refuse to cower before a task,
infusing the sweat on stubborn brows
with a glow of magic that produces
an inflow of miraculous invention.

Even the heaviest load—the wow factor
of megaliths or pyramids—can be towed
far when ingenuity is sown hands-on
in the fallow soil of imagination,
watered with a shower of creativity,
and reaped with elbow grease.

Perhaps this is our collective vow—
to endow the grand experiment
with fresh potential, to plow new fields,
to winnow out ineffective methods
and allow innovation to roll on.

Our hands seem to know that play leads
to progress, as the debt we owe to life.

Crystals on the glass
Like constellations
Or molecule chains freed
From telescopes/microscopes,
And lumpy white forms
Like sugary bean bags
Tossed out on the patio,
And backpack bulges
On mudroom hooks
Instead of kids’ shoulders,
And busy black roads
Solid white and quiet
On a school day,
And landlocked tidal waves
Arcing on sidewalks/streets
From blowers and plows,
And Christmas music
On the home speakers
As if we’d time hopped
To two months back—
Oh the marvelous
Incongruities of snow!

The magic of collective awe
Washes over us like a wave
Until applause breaks out
Here and there as if this
Were a theater production
With a sunset-painted backdrop
Lowering to the horizon of the stage
And announcing that the day—
With its ironic charades,
Tense missteps,
Playful laughs,
And tender moments—
Has come to a close.

So we rise from our seats
And stand for an ovation
Before heading home
With rose-colored thoughts.

Sister, come have strawberry tea
While the howl of the wind
Threatens to steal our flames.
Light the candles, shed the fears,
Come fill your cup and mine.

The stage opened deeper
Than seemed possible —
An extra dimension revealed
From which a grand procession
Emerged in solemn march
As Berlioz played from the pit.
When “La Marche” neared its end
And all its white-clad throng
Fluttered back from the wings
Into intricate arrangement
How my heart sang with awe.
Our lives are deeper
And grander than we know.
Somewhere there is loud applause
We’ve yet to hear.
Someday we will bow
To acknowledge the cheers,
Aware at last we are great.

Time machines are so common
These days as to be deemed
Unremarkable, but just think—
Each press of the button
Arrests everything in view
So perfectly that we can look back
Through the tunnel of years
And not one detail will have changed.
Every parent gets their wish:
Stop growing up,
Stay just how you are.