Two heads leaning over a pothole in the uneven driveway.
An unlikely playground.
One with a bucket. The other with a spoon.
Both with imagination.
The mother is cooking dinner, but stops.
The kitchen window gives her a clear view.
She is stuck,
watching.
One pours water, the other digs gravel with a spoon.
Both children now wet and dirty,
Ofocurse.
They don’t even notice.
And there it is, a world excavated before her eyes.
Rivers race toward the grass,
while two curious spectators watch the patterns
decorating an old cement drive.
The parents have been meaning to fix it.
Fill in the uneven holes,
make the driveway better.
You know, nice.
But nice doesn’t make the water run
from a child’s imagination
into chocolate rivers.
Nice just sits there, perfect.
Perfect hasn’t met a pair of wet jeans and muddy shoes.
Nice doesn’t particularly like it
when a soup spoon from the kitchen drawer
is used for digging dirt.
Imagination has a much better time
playing amidst the imperfections.
It can run more freely
knowing there’s nothing to ruin.
The children created a new world that afternoon,
and handed it to their mother.
So as she floated down the chocolate rivers,
she thanked the potholes, cracks and imperfections for a lovely afternoon.
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Aah yes! If we can just remember the creative experience of exploring and digging in the dirt and seeing what may come out of it. Children are our teachers.
Yes, absolutely Elena, and I learn more and more each day!
I am reminded to check in with my illusion of control when I read this poem.I love this line: “Imagination has a much better time playing amidst the imperfections.”