Here’s a picture book I worked on this past February during Picture Book Marathon Month. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
Sand or Snow? I Don’t Know
I hold my little pail and the shovel that goes with it.
I’m looking out the window, now, and watching all the rain come down.
If I could, I wonder what I’d wish for.
Sand or Snow?
I don’t know.
To wish for sand, the sun is out.
It’d be shorts and swimsuit warm.
“Ooh! Ahh!” I’d cry, tip-toe running across the fiery sand.
Bare feet would wobbly slide as I pick my spot on shifting sand to sit.
Then, scoop and pour, scoop and pour, I’d fill my pail in time with clapping waves.
Dry sand sweetly sifts through fingers slightly spread, but disappears in tightened fist.
Dry sand is not so good for throwing. The wind spits its teeny bits back in my eyes and hair.
Wet sand goes splat, unless molded into a colossal castle defended by a watery moat.
From crumbling castle towers my flags of flapping grass would proudly fly.
Sand is good for burying things, like toes, and twigs, and shells and things.
When fun is done, sand hates to see me go.
It clings with tiny, gritty bits.
It tries to hide between my toes and sneak away with me.
I’ll miss it, too.
I promise, with my good-bye, to come and see it soon.
To wish for snow the sun may shine, but shivery temperatures blow.
I’d wrap in winter wear. My mouth and nose and eyes are all that meet the air.
Boot stomping and snow crunching, powerfully I march forward.
Shovel and pank, shovel and pank, my pail is filled with white. My castles and their towers, now, are frosty, dazzling bright.
I lay and flap in crystal white, my shadow, now a sparkling angel.
If I throw dry snow, and in my face it blows, it disappears against my cheek with a teensy, wet, cold kiss.
Floating flakes alight on lashes, hat, and scarf. Or tickle tongue with speck of icy melting lace.
Snow is best for making balls and forts filled with frozen laughs of battles bold.
Or roll a ball to build a single friend, tall or small, or build a crowd to play around.
Snow, my mittens sog and tumbles over boot tops to numb my toes below.
Snow clings in creases between scarf and neck, diving in white and turning out wet.
Cold forces me to go where snow can’t follow.
Separated by a pane of glass, I whisper my promise to return.
Sometimes snow must go before I come.
To miss it less, it leaves a good-bye gift, of puddles to splash or mud for some squishy, squashy fun.
What is my wish?
Sand or snow? I don’t know.
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