On those nights

when sleep comes slow,

I know that morning

will come too soon,

That rolling from one side

to the other,

trying to find a proper forming

of quiet and warmth

is a warning:

a mind not yet able

to let go of the day

or trying to bring

some sense

to the one yet to come.

I wake slowly,

stages of rousled rumbling,

stumble toward my housecoat

and shuffle down the hall.

I’d like to stay

in that warm cove of covers,

let others go ahead with this day

and maybe catch up with them

around noon or so,

or maybe a few hours after.

But on these days

when the beauty of rest

is not sufficient blessing

to move me quickly

into the dawning

of another day,

duty will do.

I find, too,

that doing what we are meant to do

has its own beauty.

H. Arnett

3/4/11