Come and sit for awhile, with Grandma
to doze and suppose, what will you be.
Before age distorts with adult desires,
let us stir up the embers of infant fires.
Let Morpheus son of sleep, dream maker,
shape us a key.
Will you conquer fear, maybe learn to fly.
Stay tight as a bud, or risk failure to bloom
Mix lotions, swim oceans – be a millionaire
or nestle amongst those, reliant on prayer.
Inspired by each season’s
resplendent costume.
Will you drive a bus, work in a bank,
excel in the arts, becoming well known.
Snatch at all whimsy, not easily caught,
Find beauty in even the old or distraught.
will you one day find bliss
have a child of your own.
How foolish, to make such elaborate plans
for hope is so fragile, yet hard to ignore.
I see sleep is beckoning… time to let go
of multiple maybe’s you’ve no need to know.
Let Morpheus son of sleep, dream maker,
open each door.
Roan © copyright Jan.2013
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