Bedtime on a Sunday

The house itself sighs into the quiet.
Appliances cease their
whirring, tumbling, cleansing,
their constant working finally at a rest.

Carpets worn from the traffic of
little feet running, kneeling, playing
a family in motion, now lie proudly
displaying criss-crossing vacuum lines.

Bunk bed holds curiosity and kindness,
two little bodies snuggled together,
while bins of toys neatly line
underneath, hidden in order.

King bed invites,
with crisp white sheets and sham
pillows arranged just so,
whispering, “Come.”

I sigh into the quiet.
Strivings ceased their
pulsing, tumbling, tossing,
my frantic mind finally at rest.

Spirit worn from the traffic
of much worry, caressing and holding
tightly, begins to release and now
looks lovingly to the gifts around.

Heart holds curiosity and kindness,
two gifts given so that the
dullness and pain hidden underneath
may be transformed in order.

King invites, with
a warm word and
me arrayed just so,
whispering, “Come.”

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