Falling Blocks, Tiny Collapse

The tower wobbled, blocks of primary bright

stacked too high, a leaning, brave attempt.

His tongue caught out, his small brow tight,

a little architect, completely unkempt.

I held my breath, felt my own hands ache

to steady it, to push the red one right.

But I just watched, for goodness sake,

as gravity claimed its heavy, silent might.

They tumbled down, a soft, clattering rain.

His shoulders slumped, a tiny, silent cry.

And I just sat there, feeling the sharp, old pain

of wanting to fix it, but knowing why

I couldn't. Just the mess of colored wood.