Sleep is the prayer the body prays,
Breathing in unthought faith the Breath
That through our worry-wearied days
Preserves our rest, and is our truth.
— from Poem V in the 1990 section of A Timbered Choir by Wendell Berry
My world today was small and exhausting, peering out windows at the great outdoors, now too cold to explore. Thinking about those out there, working. My husband even wore a bright pink scarf to the barn. That’s how cold it was. He’s sleeping upstairs now. So are the kids. So will I, soon. This poem is comforting, especially on a night when my brain is as numb as my toes and fingers.