In His Dreams

His impish smile,

the mischief in his eyes

the innocence of his questions,

the hunger to learn

my thousand quiet lessons.

I wonder if he knows I write,

if he dreams, as I do,

of slow, unhurried days

in a brown cabin

high in the blue mountains,

where jasmine blooms by the window,

and we lie on warm sheets

through cold, fragrant nights.

We both know, I suppose,

how ephemeral this life is,

seconds ticking,

years slipping quietly by.

Yet we have not met,

and perhaps we never will.

One day, we will die.

But tonight he lives in my words,

and I, in his dreams.