My son lay sleeping,
Tucked into the leather couch,
All arms and legs
Looking out of place
In their rest.
Dark eyelashes gently brush
Cheeks still downy soft.
His hands hidden beneath
A tousled head.
A scab on his knee,
Dirt on his socks.
One Nike on the floor
The other on his foot.
He’s thirteen -- myth claims it an unlucky number.
My heart proves that to be false.
He still turns to me privately
For hugs, affection, wisdom.
More and more, however,
He is stepping out of my reach.
His humor amuses me.
His brightness captivates me.
His sense of right and wrong
Impresses me.
He is almost a man.
Call me Michael,
Mickey is for babies he says.
He is my baby
This son of mine,
Looking much as his father did
At the same age.
And as I glimpse
The man he will become
I am awed at the wonder
Of the circle of life.
But for now he is just sleeping,
Dreaming of dirt bikes
Skateboards and a girl named Sam.
Copyright 2002 by Leysa Robertson
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