Of Dreams

I wish I could dream
The dreams of my children
Those impractical, juvenile,
Infantine trips to worlds
That I now know to
Be fiction

There hardly is a point
In dreaming dreams
That are impractical

There are no gardens
Where the fountains
Have the elixirs
That imbibe me with powers
Or butterflies
Resting on rhododendrons
That are in fact
Filaments of gold
Sewn together
By a magical hand
That I waved

I’ll merely kiss my kids goodnight
And watch their eyes droop
As they fly out to their lands
Awash in belief

I will close the door
And silently bid them goodbye