The house is all in darkness except for this corner bedroom
where the lighthouse of a table lamp is guiding
my eyes through the narrow channels of print,
and the only movement in the night is the slight
swirl of curtains, the easy life and fall of my breathing,
and the flap of pages as they turn in the wind of my hand.
Is there a more gentle way to go into the night
than to follow an endless rope of sentences
and then to slip drowsily under the surface of a page….
Excerpt from Reading Myself to Sleep by Billy Collins.
Feeling tired. I’ve spent the evening running errands, watching a novela with my mom, and missing my husband who’s been away on a business trip all week. Yes, I think it’s time to curl up with a good book.
Is it the weekend yet?
