My child awakes singing sweet songs, the infant
Rocking in his bed, holding a plush toy elephant.
Leaves are plastered upon the walk, everywhere clumped and scattered
Upon the soaking ground outside, as if not it mattered.
That I am downstairs in the study, warmed with coffee,
Listening to my boy, composed and breathing easy
Knowing my wife lay in bed also listening with a sleepy joy.
There is a song of youth for every morning. Like an offered toy
Innocence lifts its voice, clothed in my boy’s little body, to the sky
Riding his voice like a soaring eagle, forever graceful to fly
over our cozy lives, a protector in zippered pajamas
Making up his own words and sprinkling them with commas
A conjuring of hugs and happiness soars
And enlivens my chores.
The darkness outside is content.
It has its train whistles rolling through
valleys laden with fog and woodsmoke
Except for Nicolas Cage.
He’s going to lose his shit any minute.