Son

Halfway stopped
by the chair
his door hangs loose on hinges.
Used to swing
across castle moats,
crocodile rivers,
whatever he imagines.

Treasures
In the closet crowded with whims,
Where his clothes
ought to be,

Sculptures carved
in walls,
Painted his favorite hues
Red. Greens, and blues,

On the floor,
yesterdays underwear,
this mornings towel
Today’s T-shirt & jeans,
No shoes to be seen.
Piles of discarded days,

Inked bed frame
proclaim words forbidden,

On the window sill
his latest Lego creation
next to dishes of crumbs not allowed.

Moonlight shadows
soften her mood.

On his bed
with blankets bunched
Softly sleeping,
his tousled head askew.
No sign of his mischievous might,
small hand, a tender touch,

Oh, how much he’s grown.

This son holds his mothers heart.
Something she’s always known.