Of Napping and Getting There

So still he lies upon his back, his elbows bent,
his hands, one upon another, lying flatly open upon his torso,
extended so long, once so tall while he stood.

When he stood, he towered overhead;
now he looks long, not tall,
and I sit staring at his already sleeping form,
my head higher than his horizontal body.

So large to me, with such authority,
yet how quickly he, not I, has fallen asleep.

As I watch for any sign of his return
from where he has gone beyond this lonely stillness,
I suddenly regret that I didn't follow him
into the realm of dream.

I wonder what adventure he has far off
as I am left here to watch a boring, sleeping form.

As I listen to the breaths he expires,
the waves beckon me to follow him.

When I later awake to unveiled evening strangeness,
I have missed out on all my father has done
since waking before me to see the end of high noon,
and I immediately forget the adventure I have returned from.

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My first poem posted in the poetry post - my first on the forums at all.