Red-Checked Apron

She always arrives quietly.
I look up and there she is, dimming the lights,
adjusting the window shades ever so slightly.
Night is never pretentious.  There is no fanfare
for her appearing.  It's almost like she tip-toes
not to surprise but to move in silent gracefulness
in order not to disturb or startle.

When the moment is right,
she dries her hands on her red-checked
apron, bends low and embraces all
of us who are weary.  She gathers in.
Room for everyone.
No exceptions.

In her arms there is pleasant comfort,
relaxing trust and gentle refreshment.
A delicious drowsiness descends,
a blurring of all the things that have
occupied the moment.  Just before
the final light fades into darkness,
she whispers my name.
"Look.  Look through the window."

Turning under the cool touch of soft sheets,
there, embedded in the black sky,
are pinpoints of light, white dots
dancing to silent music, tiny 
explosions of brilliance in every
direction.  Here and there and there.
"They will watch in the darkness."
But even the magical sparkling lights
slip from view as
Sleep arrives.