Rainy day weekends command naps
and she is more than willing to oblige
once the clock shows 2 or 3
or after lunch, when her insides are full and warm.
She bids farewell to the others, and calls up to her bed
“I’m on my way!”
gathering up her book as she climbs to her room,
her quiet heaven.
She slips off her daily clothes, folds them neatly and places them
on a nearby chair, for later,
then reaches under her pillow for the softest nightshirt,
stretching her arms as the comforting worn cotton falls around her shoulders.
Pulling the covers away, she wants to jump in,
but won’t disturb the cat, already blissfully asleep.
Carefully, precisely, she climbs in, and lays down,
opening her book to the part where the boy and his horse
ride into the ocean and swim with the dolphins.
While she reads
her feet rub against each other rhythmically
remnants of a child’s self-soothing habit
and after two or three pages
her eyes begin to grow heavy
and the rain calls her to sleep
the book falls away,
and the breeze lifts the curtains.
The rains sing and soothe
as she swims away.