If the dirt beneath our feet could talk
It would tell of stories of

People shaping pipe cleaners
Into lions and tigers and bears,
Disposable pie plates
Flattened to throw,

Games played
With rocks, and grooves
dug into the earth,
Games of pretend with
Pirates and princes
and masked marauders.

At slumber parties,
Whispered storytelling games,
Ill start the sentence, you say the next
And shadow puppets

Listen to the words, see the
Kids in neighborhoods
Dividing into teams,
throwing fallen pinecones at each other
Hopscotch, slaps, knuckles,

Games played between coworkers
That are just words and retention.

Hear the whispers of
How the first jump-rope
Was undoubtedly
just a length of rope
Who knows how long ago.

Take notice of the murmurs and see
How natural it is to play,
How we seek it at every age
With any resources we have,
With whatever time we can
Squeeze it into a day.

After food and shelter
and water and air,
Comes games and stories
And laughter and joy.

There is nothing,

Not sex or fighting
Or building or surviving,

There is nothing more human than
to play.

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