The beach by bare boy feet seems curiously boring
except for the sheer joy of a parent-free kid mystery exploring,
urged to toe-kick or poke with sticks by a teasy tide
any secret sand pile, aided and abetted by one pirate eye
in cloud-island sky, silently spotting for a pearl-seeking mind
where forgotten treasure would and should certainly hide
and surely waited for eight year-old me to find.
Soon a thin light gem smooth, damp and wonderfully round
plucks like white plunder from clam-shell ground,
wish-trails mapping my more-than-happy hand
for me and my new friend to follow in tomorrow's cool fantasy land.
Memory's cherished relics and what they meant root deeper than time
even though in terms of dollars and cents they really aren't worth a dime.
My sea-borne star is more valuable by far than a hundred bars of gold
simply because in this sun-minted heart it still flints young smiles
shared with my lover-of-life sweet wife and newborn child
and I'm sneaking up on fifty years old.
Regarding children, family, and the home.
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