For My Son Who Talks in His Sleep

When my son was born, my wife and I purchased one of those wonderful contraption that allows parents to listen in on their sleeping babies.

The poem "For My Son Who Talks In His Sleep" was inspired by an incident in the middle of the night when I woke to my son's babbling coming in over that nursery monitor. I listened for a while, then drifted back to sleep.

In the morning over coffee, I remembered that midnight serenade and how it sounded as though my son was speaking in two different voices, like characters in a dream play. The possibility of his having already discovered the joy of storytelling occurred to me. At what age does imagination begin? Are we ever able to fully comprehend our own inherent powers of creation?

My son's babbles sparked those questions – and this poem:

The babble of babies

rises again in your room
and I wonder what new friends
you are making tonight.

Not yet two,
you have learned the joy of dreaming,
the endless gift, my son, of making
the make-believe come true.

Before you were born
a fortune teller told your mother
we would have an author
for a son.

And I want you to know
how much I love
hearing this story
you are telling tonight.

Exquisite lamb,
you lie awake in dreams
conversing with
the other angels.

Your waking world
will never count you in
as just another sheep.
Creation is yours for the making.

* * *

Where Did You Go?

Where did you go, my little boy,

My man of six foot three,

My little towhead toddler

Who sat upon my knee?

Standing tall with Charlotte Rose

Riding on your shoulder,

And suddenly, at least to me,

You're not a minute older.

©Charles Ghigna