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Every playing child behaves like a poet, in that he creates a world of his own, or more accurately expressed, he transposes things into his own world according to a new arrangement which is to his liking
A number of years ago, a young mother in my neighborhood died after a long illness, leaving four young children. Although there were no tears or signs of psychological upset, the children's play, and that of their friends, reflected a communal grieving process. In their conversations, spontaneous artwork, and dramatic play, the theme of death and resurrection was omnipresent.
Repetitively in the warm summer night, the children played the game of ‘1-2-3 … midnight!’ Hidden players, pierced by the sharp beam of the flashlight, would instantly fall dead, only to be resurrected at ‘midnight!’ after all had been killed.
Elaborate chalk drawings appeared on sidewalks and driveways, depicting pictures of tombstones with indecipherable names. Shoe-boxes became coffins, and ‘priests’ mumbled last rites, as dead birds and bugs were buried under mounds of soil.