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The worn-out box with letters smooth and cool,
A velvet pouch, our linguistic pool.
Ivory tiles each bearing worth and weight,
A family ritual sealing our wordy fate.

The wooden board, a grid of squares defined,
Where double letters, treasures we could find.
Triple words beckoned, a strategic quest,
To build our lexicon and put it to the test.

Remember the clatter as tiles were drawn unseen,
The hopeful glances what could these letters mean?
The furrowed brows, the silent thoughtful stare,
As hidden words emerged from out of air.

The careful placement edge to careful edge,
Connecting vowels upon that lettered ledge.
A "QU" appearing, O, the joyful sound,
As precious points upon the board were found.

The challenge hurled, a questioning sharp cry,
"Is that a word?" beneath a watchful eye.
The dictionary consulted thick and grand,
A judgment rendered by the family hand.

The bonus squares, a lucky, vibrant hue,
That multiplied our score and saw us through.
The high-point letters, "Z" and precious "X,"
A strategic play to cleverly annex.

Remember the groans when stuck with vowels three,
Or consonants clustered mocking our decree
To form a masterpiece, a word of grand design,
Before the next turn and that dwindling line.

The final count, the adding up with glee,
A whispered total for all the room to see.
A simple game yet bonds it would create,
Around the Scrabble board sealing our wordy fate.

The missing tiles, the board a little worn,
Hold memories of battles fought till morn.
A nostalgic pang for evenings spent with kin,
Where Scrabble's magic drew us all within.

©bfa041525

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