I remember my mother standing at the window, looking out
At the trees waving in a cold wind and a light flaking of snow.
“A good night to sleep,” she’d say. And, sure, it was.
Under blankets. Safe and warm. Even now,
Every once in a while, when in winter’s grip, I think,
“A good night to sleep.” It’s that sleep grows fragile
As I age and ache and really need to get up to pee.
Even then, sliding into the residual warmth again,
I sleep a good night. Good night.