Sleep must be wooed, its elusiveness coaxed hither.
Bones and joints complain, skin prickles, a bladder urges.
Roadblocks loom up in the mind--
bright lights of fear,
quicksand of self-recrimination,
sinkholes of regret.
The Mountain of If Only rises before the eyes.
When sleep eludes and will not be enticed,
it is time to pray Faith Baldwin's "unfailing prayer"--
"I've done what I could, Father.
So now it is in your hands."
There are the good times when life is a buttery soft chamois
run gently over us.
Other times it is as rough as a loofah
or as agonizing as a metal grater.
It is still life, a gift denied to many.
Reason enough to go to bed each night and let our mind
run over the joys inherent in each day,
much as a small child does at day's end,
his fingers rubbing the satin binding of his blanket.
Time to surrender and permit sleep to embrace us.
"God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world."
[from Pippa Passes by Robert Browning]
