The Yield

Night rewrites day, transforms the blues with ink-wash, urges me to forget grapples, tasks, drudgery, hard surfaces and hardened people as all things soften, lighten, blur— even gravity pulls less as if the world’s core has pardoned the hefty afternoon. Sheets pouch this body, pillows accept every sigh. Sleep is a leave-taking, a poetic restoration of sense and mindfulness. Faultless, this need to submit, this appeal to let go. Just let it go.