As if their bedrooms hung with vines all around
they sleep and dream of fun and frightful things,
nestled in blankets of soft straw and grasses,
bedding made of cozy sticks and silent leaves.
As if they were little wild things in their caves
they wake and stretch their jaws with long yawns,
their round faces plump with sleep,
flush with warmth, shiny with rest.
As if all the hope in the world pours from their young hearts,
swells in their squeaky voices, surges through their bright pajamas,
through their cuddly arms and furry paws
wraps itself around you,
your own heart singing hopeful with that same young hope,
even as they cover you in soft and fierce kisses,
even as you know how they will grow and soar,
how they will stumble and slide, how they will flourish and fly,
as if they could never leave empty bedrooms behind.