Untitled Poem
The day draws down its blinds
and aches in my bones bring
bed to my mind.
The promise of sleep pulls me
downwards as if to
balance the burden of gravity.
And there, horizontal,
the body may mend, and weakened
souls may suspire.
While the week shuts its eyes
and stars keep their vigil,
weary things drop
Into Your four-poster grace:
all-surrounding, Your love,
which sings inside sleep.
The Consolations of Writing 