Tiptoeing by a Sleeping Grandson

Tiptoeing by a Sleeping Grandson by George N Wallace

Sleep Late Laddie Boy.

sleep for all the soldiers who must rise 

and beneath foreign skies

fold their blankets in the cool damp,

bare feet on cold concrete floors and

rifles close at hand.

The Boy Sleeps Deep for the fishermen  

as they leave safe harbors, 

guiding their boats through spray and early morning fog 

still using hand-held lights, to make first entries in their logs,

coffee sloshing, cooling in porcelain cups.

He Sleeps Long while

carpenters roll out their jobs 

unraveling daisy chained cords and lugging 

portable saws into place,

tenured workmen rubbing sore knuckles, 

stretching stiff backs and pausing gratefully 

as the sun splits the horizon.

His Legs Slide Smooth between the sheets

free from the heavy clothes of work or winter

tee shirt, jeans, – soft toed shoes lie crumpled on the floor,

still no neckties in the closet to grant him entry 

into rooms already throbbing with digital heat.

Right Now Lad, your job is to rest up, grow, 

dream moist dreams, pile on cells and lengthen bone, 

re-hash equations and the shot that didn’t fall and

in your hazy slumber perhaps new ideas, 

ear bud music and hormones merge 

to give you the passion and desire 

to try and understand it all.

We won’t wake you now, but Your Time is Coming.

It won’t be long until the striving begins.

You’ll be summoned to rise and sing your own song, 

call the cadence for a pre-dawn run or calm the wailing child,

groom and nicker to the horses before the long gather. 

To inspire yourself and others to perceive the universe 

And hear it sing.