Childhood is prose

And play is poetry

A plate of fruit sits on a wooden table like a still life

Except play isn’t about watching and wiping off dust

Play is about engaging the fruit

A mango, dragonfruit, lemon and starfruit await the grasp of brusque tiny hands

On the sidelines a child watches as the others try to figure out how to eat the fruit

One child sneaks away the lemon and naws at the flesh

A teacher watches, waiting for the moment when she discovers that she isn’t eating an orange

Another teacher scoops up the lemon and places it back on the table

Once the fruit has stilled once more, the observer approaches

He picks up the mango and imagines what beast must have laid this egg

The egg hatched and became a dragonfruit

He takes the starfruit in one hand and uses it to roll the lemon across a plate

The lemon moves is slow measured circles

In this controlled environment he confesses, sometimes the noise is too much for him

And still the lemon moves in precise rings

He likes how the starfruit fits in his palm

He likes how he can move it, stand it horizontal or vertical and it still remains stable

Stable and rocking the unpredictable lemon

Through the senses the child manipulates his world

His hands can, push, pull, roll and with any luck no one will tell him no.

The End

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