Dreaming of a Son

 

He used to sit with me on summer nights

to hear the twanging bullfrogs, to explore

my grown-up world with all the sacred rites

a little boy with robe and dinosaur

could fancy. Now, alone beside his bed,

I feel the evening sun illuminate

a gold inscription -- Aesop -- stories read

aloud to kindle fires, to captivate

a fledgling mind, an eaglet in its nest.

 

Imagination steered his captain's ship

through galaxies as voyagers professed

their faith in their commander's steely grip.

 

But now, upon that vast celestial sea,

he sails alone, forever lost to me.