Twelve weeks old
I hold you in my arms
and wonder on your dreams,
almost everything as yet undone,
the very early moments of your life.
What do you dream about little man
that causes your face to look so,
your arms to fling out
your body to stretch
as if preparing for a race?
Do you run over sand
or over meadows?
Does the moon or sunlight guide your way?
Do extraordinary animals or winged creatures
inhabit your dreamscape,
inhabitants of this world or the next?
Do you talk in your dreams
when your perfect forehead furrows,
and your mouth moves in whispered thoughts?
Are your dreams full of others,
or do you explore your wondrous world alone?
I can only imagine
for when you are old enough
to tell me in words I comprehend,
the dreams of your first beginning days
will be forever lost to mystery and wonder
for those who hold you
with safe and cradled arms
while you sleep.