Curled up in an old quilt,
Staring intently at the ceiling
As if it holds the answers to sleep.
Rolling and turning,
Becoming ensnared in your blanket,
In your protection from the cold.
Toss the thing off in protest and punishment
Wait as the chill sets in
Forgive the blanket (it doesn’t know any better).
Start counting sheep
Everyone says it works
You quickly find out it doesn’t.
Your back to staring at the ceiling
And begging for sleep to grace your presence
Asking for the peace of Slumber.