While you are sleeping,
I make the rounds, watering can in hand,
to the vegetable beds—tomato plants,
cucumber vines, sweet potatoes.
Your sleep the sleep of innocents,
I like to believe,
your dreams of coloring books and mint
chocolate chip and a kitten you do not have.
A sprig of crabgrass popped up
in with the Straight 8s, my fingers
pinch the invader, more to come,
so I have learned over the years.
But what of bad dreams now, do they intrude
more or less often—alone out back,
the gates locked, you run
and run but no escape to be found.
Perhaps the morning sun will rescue
you as I soak the containers,
roused, your feet firmly planted,
a stretch, a yawn, padding out to the kitchen.
Thus, the world reborn as it should be,
as I wish it ever so for you.
Lyman
2021
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