Nocturnal

A sleeping child is like a poem yet to be written. You know that when this force wakes up you will be engulfed in frenetic impulse.  A drive to be and discover that will root holes in the lawn and empty spices on the floor with the same joy. But when they are sleeping, with the morning light just there on the cheek still full with babyhood, they are still the dream of energy.  

Oliver woke up, ready to probe the universe's junk drawer of unasked questions, at 4:30 am.  It is still dark at 4:30.  I am still dark at 4:30.  This didn't bother Ollie.  He had questions to ask.

Now, he is sleeping, on my pillow, in the remains of my sleep and I hope that he dreams of love.  I hope that when we wakes up I will be sufficiently caffeinated to withstand his expansion with good humor.  This will require more than one mug of tea.  Seeing him there, quiet and dreaming on my pillow I hope that I will manage, because right now, he is my joy.

Black tea, over-brewed, almost steaming.