My mother does not dream.
She fosters dreams, enables
Others to dream, and
Encourages them to make those
Dreams real, but
She does not dream.
She doesn't like to sleep,
As she feels that she has
Too much to do.
The impractical wonders of
A dream state do not entice her,
Nor does the possibility of an
Escape, or at least a respite,
From the struggles of this world
Tempt her.
She has no use for such
Distractions and fantasies, for
She has work to do.
Joy for her is a
Job well done,
Sleep is an annoying necessity.
She is actively building this
Waking life.
I do dream.
I marvel at the many mysteries
Both within and without my mind,
Spend time waxing poetic
On whatever idea I have given
Temporary importance to,
Hunting for deeper connections in the
Dense undergrowth of the thorny
Human connection to this universe,
Hopefully occasionally stumbling upon
A beautiful truth that brings
Tears to eyes, lumps to throats,
Meaning to that deceptively constant
Thumping in my chest,
Co-opting purpose for an otherwise
Imperceptible life,
Because she has done the work
For me to be.
Perhaps I was mistaken-
My mother does indeed dream,
And her dream is me.