Winter afternoon

If you find yourself climbing into bed at three o’clock

these winter afternoons, with warm socks, and perhaps

a waxed and neatly folded packet of graham crackers,

tucked by the pillow that props your book--

stay.

Especially if it’s a novel stacked, sure as a woodpile,

with sentences about gorse hedges, sturdy tweeds,

builders tea, and a restorative quaff of brandy. Neat.

With townsfolk, plain and loyal,

and maybe a few hens for eggs.

And if you despise yourself, just a little,

for the wasted hour and the admittedly light read,

let stillness come, instead.

Allow the calm of page. The embrace of blanket.

The pull of dull and drowsy winter light.

Give yourself to the afternoon

and the nap it contains. This is not moral failure.

This, my friends, is comfort. This, my dears, all joy.

Kate Young Wilder