Sunny arm around his head.
Chubby cheek and tousled hair,
Fingers curled round little bear.
The end of an exciting day.
Tuckered out from hours of play.
Dreaming of the feats and fun,
Of new adventures still to come.
Romping with his favorite toys,
Brought to life with moves and noise.
Now sitting where he sat them down
A mumbled, jumbled odd toy town.
Froggy perched upon the train.
Monkey, driver of the crane.
Block tunnel for the racing cars.
The rocket ship crashed down from Mars.
Little child all worn out.
He built, he climbed, he jumped about.
He ran the farm and rode the horse -
Backwards with eyes closed, but, of course.
I think that there could never be
Two sights more beautiful to see.
A boy that you could not love more;And his toys all over the living room floor.
note: Poet Laundry posted a lovely ode to one of her son's this week and it reminded me of a verse I wrote, a while back, about one of my Grandson's. I admit it's not terribly esoteric - though, it is the only poem I've ever written that I recall my son (his father) remarking: That's beautiful, Mom. This business of raising boys to men - Ah-h-h-h-h . . .
photo: Toys on the Floor - W. Bourke
© 2011 Wendy Bourke