Sleeping in Later than Late
Knowing I have only one day more before I fly away, home,
I give myself complete permission to sleep in late,
Later than later than I've ever slept, in Lake Nebagamon.
And what joyous freedom there is that resides, abides,
In my realizing that sleep is a delicious suspension of time,
A caesura in the chaotic orchestrations of daily doing,
Not just a necessity for our physical and mental well-being
Or a distraction we indulge in when evading responsibilities
Or shamelessly embracing sheer torpor, laziness, lassitude.
Carefree mornings such as this sunny Sabbath
In my quiet cabin by the glistening, ice-impastoed lake
Come every other eon, millennium, century, year or so,
At least in this current mortal existence on loan to me,
And when one does present me with the sweet opportunity
To suspend time, for however long I deem unreasonably long,
I surrender my present-tense being to late sleep's keeping
And pretend that when I open my eyes again,
I'll be here, in this sleepy village, for the rest of my life.
03/20/10 - (1)
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