Moving poety from a local father.
A child defined
When I think of him I smile; I envision his smile and can hear his laughter. It is laughter of true innocence; laughter as pure as the driven snow. His eyes pierce into my heart and I feel him in my soul. A smile as radiant as one hundred suns; a demeanor as gentle as a kitten. In his world of make believe he sees what others will never see; he hears what others will never hear. His hands so small; his ideas so big. A tiny voice with so much to say; a fresh mind with so much to learn. When he looks at me, my heart smiles. When he calls my name, I can hear nothing else.
As you lay sleeping
So peaceful, so innocent. Your eyes shut; you're breathing barely audible. Your tiny body covered; your beautiful face resting so gently on your pillow. Angels watch over you tonight; they keep you in their care. So many dreams to dream; dreams of laughter and play; dreams of what you will someday be; dreams of which no one will know except you. So tired from another full day; you drift into a world that only you know exists.
A day at the park
Across the autumnal gray sky, the puffy, marshmallow soft clouds drift eloquently. The chill in the air paints his delicate cheeks a brilliant hue of red; his breath visible in the fall air.
From across the field, the unmistakable sound of children laughing echoes; it reverberates with the force of thunder.
Slyly, he looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. He runs with reckless abandon; his tiny legs carry him as fast as any car has ever imagined going. Imagination is the order of the day; the children busy themselves with their latest adventure.
In a rush he ascends to his golden platform; seemingly miles above the ground. He surveys his empire as proudly as any general ever has; and in that moment, he is the master of all that he sees.
Two benches and a table; that's all it really is. But when we sit there, it becomes so much more.
The magic of a child's innocence takes hold; newspapers become flying projectiles; an unbreakable bond between a father and son is formed. As the years pass, it will be a place where the wonders of the universe will be explored; a place where lessons will be taught; a place where anything will be possible. Great ideas will be discussed, disagreements will be had, and broken hearts will be mended.
Then the day will come when the teacher will become the student, and the torch will be passed to the next generation. That day, I will look across that table and see a grown man where a child once sat.
But how could some place so ordinary hold such magic?
After all, it's just two benches and a table.
Sometimes they flutter; sometimes they are wide with amazement; sometimes they are a transparent window to his soul. As blue as the morning sky; they sparkle more brilliantly than the entire world's diamonds.