Sleep calls me
on a quiet Saturday afternoon
when the ironing and vacuuming are done
and it's not yet time to start dinner.

She calls me from the bedroom,
where she's already lured the cats
into one, black, circular mass of slow breathing
and entwined limbs.

She's clouded the sky
and stirred the wind,
so the autumn trees wave and release their leaves
and tell me the bed will be a warm refuge
from the undeniable approach of winter,
if just for an hour
or only 20 minutes.

Sleep's soft humming drags at my eyelids
and at whatever willpower remains
for more straightening, organizing, putting away. 

She wins, of course–
it's not a difficult persuasion.
The cats knew I'd surrender,
just as they did.

A nap on such an afternoon
is a gracious gift;
I accept sleep's seductive invitation.

She stands guard at the bedroom door,
keeping out obligation,
the annoying oughts and shoulds.

I love sleep,
and her little cousin,
the nap.

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.