What do you see, my little hero,
in the garden of your mind?
Blossoms dancing on a breeze
and grasses you can hide behind:
let me share in what you find.
What do you smell, my little hero,
in the kitchen of your soul?
Bagels warming in the oven,
chocolate melting in a bowl,
the smokey hiss of drips on coal.
What do you touch, my little hero,
with the fingers of your nap?
Smoothness of a cotton dream,
around which dreamy limbs will wrap
and catch you in a sleepy trap.
What do you taste, my little hero,
in the milk of morning press?
Information pouring in
with each fresh gulp of creaminess
and nothing wasted, more or less.
What do you hear, my little hero,
in the music of your heart?
Violins blend into drumrolls
as cymbals wrench the peace apart,
just waiting for the songs to start.
(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018
