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