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There are dragons
sleeping in his mind
waiting to be awakened
each night by the stories
I read to him
at bedtime.

There are seeds of sequoia trees
invisible but there
on the palms of his little hands
waiting to be planted
in a forest I cannot see
but I know is there
somewhere in his life and future
where he is destined to walk
and realize the great things
he is capable of
if he can dig little holes on the earth
and have a little faith
and give it a little time.

There are legends
hovering in his sky
like endangered eagles,
pirate ships and seven seas,
love that can move mountains,
warriors and victories,
desert dunes and miracles
that shimmer in the sun.
He looks at me when
I say the words, their names
and all things possible
take shape inside his heart,
my little one who
has yet to see the world,
who has yet to make head or tail
of where the wings should go
or whether man can fly.
He believes instead
in every magnificence
that I speak of.
He gathers them like feathers
from the rising and falling
of my voice.
The light in the hall
is the color of lullabies.
People’s reasons are soft
and fold like blankets.
He is asleep before
each happy ending.
I hold his dreams reverently
under the hushed stars.

“Going Home” by photographer Elvira Tankiamco


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