The boy is wide awake:
he climbs into our bed
and clambers toward my head,
wielding a yellow rake.

Combing my hair, the boy
giggles with every stroke.
His is a simple joke:
he knows his plastic toy

is not a comb, my hair
is not disheveled sand,
and yet his furrowed mind
has seen a likeness there—

delight grows from small seeds.
And for now I won’t worry
what else might, as we hurry
toward what the future breeds.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 26 Number 1, on page 30
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