(With apologies or Apologetics to A.J.Ayer and Wittgenstein)
Children deserting the mixture of string pulled,
wheel driven, color massed meld of toys,
grab for brown ordinary boxes.
Boxes with four sides, square, sure of borders.
Boxes closed or open are split through
by the utter fullness of children's play,
yet, the play is held within the box.
Poets need boxes, boundaries, borders,
for transcendent visions which split through
space/time, night and day.
But, men who create boxes need poets and God and children who play.
The box was very small.
It had no openings.
The logical positivist crouched
dismally, certain of his confinement.
Some attempted to climb out,
knocking against the thin brown sides.
Unable to make statements about the outside they made
The Creator of stories demolished the box.
His story protruding and heavy
fell through the bottom
and pushed through the top.
The children, playing in the box,
romped in colorful riot.
They rolled in laughter,
over-spilling the edges,
the opened top and bottom,
delighting in eternal play.
by Viola Larson