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.
Copyright © Cyndi Macmillan | Year Posted 2018
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