My son,
I would sketch a poem of you,
one that pencils through life's redundancies
and captures you
in language ripe with riddles
wrapped about moon-winds.

You are like a hawk
hang-gliding splendidly through space
harnessing the elements to your need.

At times you stubbornly
hold onto stark ridges as few would,
and by so doing gain priceless energy.

You are genius, artist, inventor
filled with choirs of noisemakers
bursting through daydreams
into magnificent views of a future
drawn over and around your many creations.

Gregory, your mother writes her approval.