Sleep is sacrament, she told us, as we learned not to be children anymore. We were amazed by (had become) her own (image and likeness) likened to (the whirl of safety while we slept). And when we woke, we were newborn again. Or plural any rain day. We would saunter down the lane with purpose. We would carry with us what we slept. The surprising way of being was the chance of half arriving there, with all our personalities imparted.
Sleep is choice, she said. We wandered into unplanned scripts. We told some outer being we would be the same as quiet silk. We thought to have obeyed our hearts. It was enough to know the color that preceded quiet. Then we knew what we could not have strained to make.
Sleep is art, we learned. And in the midnight chapter of the story, unnamed birds would sing long trellises of snow. And in the wan light of continued slumber, there would be unnoticed punctuation starting to take flight. We would not know enough to cling to where we were. We knew not where or how. We stayed with midnight, clothes released to outer air. Nothing imparted had been learned. Again, we held our view, noticed and blended.
No comments:
Post a Comment