The boy adrift in outer space alone,
His hairless pate in a glassy dome.
The awe, the joy, the dreaming soul.
A six-tooth smile in a barrel roll.
While his hands still search and his toes still curl,
Half in, half out of his old man’s world.
The half that’s in heaves a sigh at me,
The half that’s gone starts its reverie.
With that I guess he’s in the stars,
Using them like monkey bars,
To swing amidst the giant rows
While the library of his dreaming grows.
And once it’s up he’ll float about
In no great hurry to be picking out
His stories or his nursery rhymes;
He knows his dreams aren’t bound by time.
He bobs on past hoar-frosted shelves,
And a section with a copse of elves.
With a languid pull he moves along,
To the fantasy he’ll settle on.
I’ve always imagined him like this,
Giggling through the stacks in bliss.
The length and breadth of an innocent’s whim,
His snickers and kicks propelling him.
Now in my arms he’s settled more,
But he shifts a bit one time before
His searching hand tugs on my nose –
He’s grabbed a dream, and off he goes.