Three Hours in the Cool of the Day
At eighty-seven years of age,
I have learned the value of small kingdoms.
One of them waits for me each afternoon,
behind a quiet door and a drawn curtain.
The world hums on without me—
cars pass, telephones ring,
people hurry toward important things—
while I surrender to a gentler calling.
In the cool of the day
I stretch out beneath a light blanket,
and three sweet hours unfold
like a well-loved hymn.
Sleep comes not as a thief
but as an old and trusted friend,
taking my hand and leading me
into fields of drifting dreams.
Sometimes I walk again through childhood,
hearing voices long since faded into memory.
Sometimes I wander strange bright places
that exist nowhere but in sleep.
The burdens of the morning grow lighter.
The stiffness leaves my bones.
The mind that has carried eighty-seven years
finds a little harbor from the sea.
Outside, the sun moves westward.
Inside, I travel without effort,
floating between memory and imagination,
between yesterday and tomorrow.
Then waking comes softly.
The room is quiet.
The air is cool.
The clock says three hours have passed,
though it feels as if I have borrowed time itself.
I rise refreshed and grateful,
a little stronger, a little steadier,
ready once more for the evening ahead.
At eighty-seven, I do not apologize for my nap.
It is medicine without a prescription,
a blessing without a price,
three hours of bliss in the cool of the day,
and a chance, for a little while,
to dream.
LINES BY LIMING 