My seven-year old son climbs the roof,
a short step out his window
and thirty feet down,
to claim what birds reside in.
He certainly knows
when I discover him,
fear will reign, a thunderstorm.
But for him sky opens
like the door to a room of dragons
light on the wing,
not his own small room,
walls cluttered with stickers,
milk stains on the floor.
Once, his thrill
was the kitchen sink, to climb
the step-stool on his own,
reach the soap,
stroke his small silken hands.
Now he braces the walls of the house.
No matter how I plead,
his face beams, faithful to joy.
No matter
how willful I am,
he won’t come down.
a short step out his window
and thirty feet down,
to claim what birds reside in.
He certainly knows
when I discover him,
fear will reign, a thunderstorm.
But for him sky opens
like the door to a room of dragons
light on the wing,
not his own small room,
walls cluttered with stickers,
milk stains on the floor.
Once, his thrill
was the kitchen sink, to climb
the step-stool on his own,
reach the soap,
stroke his small silken hands.
Now he braces the walls of the house.
No matter how I plead,
his face beams, faithful to joy.
No matter
how willful I am,
he won’t come down.