On a beach two boys are playing,
sifting sand, sorting stones,
seeing shells no eye has seen
before the patient sea.

Isaac is the older one
who, before he goes home,
leaves deep prints in wet, cool sand,
striding back to town while
the younger boy watches.

Little Albert observes the way
the impish ocean starts to bathe
Isaac's prints away
with swirls that bubble and beckon.
'Yes, I'm coming,'� he replies
to the welcoming sea.

Books are fine for a time,
making him wider of mind
and pointing him toward islands
he cannot yet see, but knows must be.
Selling all he has, Albert buys a sailboat.

Blown by breezes of mirth and Mozart,
he frowns at the docks that would tie him up
because sails are meant to billow
and away alone he is meant to go.

What the books taught him become
line and tackle, hammer and saw, flute and viol
for works of play, works of play,
some of which he throws away
(beaching his boat for brief, sad moments),
but many works well worth his play.

'How well he sails!'� the townfolk cheer;
Albert never minds that much,
wishing them well and loving a few,
but always content
again to sail away into his play.

There are scavengers along the beach
who watch him play and use his work
to build the town, build the town,
making much of his works of play,
for the power of the ocean has entered them.

Then there comes a terrible day
when they use his work in a sad, scary way.
'Will the town survive?'� he hears them say.

Poor, poor townfolk, the boy broods.
Why can't they come and play with me,
sailing and wandering this ocean,
for there are other islands out here:
many I've seen and walked upon,
fearful islands that kill visitors,
cheerful islands that set hearts sailing;
and many others that Isaac could not have dreamed.

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