Watching you silently drift off to sleep,
as I read Whitman in your direction,
your miracle becomes real again. Softly
your chest rises and falls under the covers,
and your lips part slightly. This is when
rest becomes holy; this time, whether dreaming
or no, I know you will wake up. It’s written
in the way your hair falls over your forehead,
and also in your summer freckles, and all
over your sun-kissed cheeks. I can’t not see
beauty in your sleeping body, my love, my
creation, my son.
