Poem of the Day

On the Verge of Christmas

He is asleep and dreaming,
clasping sheets and seeming
to smile upon his pillow laid
as if upon entering, it stayed,
the little thought that gives him joy,
perhaps remembrance of a toy
he frolicked with throughout the day
and even now does with him lay.

No longer seeming, now knowing
his smile is real made true by showing
a giggle from the darkness breaking
against the quiet dream he's making.
And all my quiet fears made mild
and fade to nothing beside my sleeping child.
And the night that was to play my dread
is playing strings of moonbeams instead.

A sleeping child was God long ago.
What dreams He dreamed we will never know.
But tonight I'm thinking and hoping it could be
that He once had a dream of my son and me.

-- Anonymous