81.

My daughter yearns for sleep

after a day brimming, she picks up

her blue blanket, her eyes weighted

with time, and tries to stay past

the moment that seems to erase

itself with a yawn. She pauses

moves past her twin, hawkish

with the night, and turns in

her reading still on her mind

for the rest, the deep dream

of a sleep of her own definition

until she bounds from bed

with the sun rising, a compass

to her breath and the paradox

that is the fulcrum of her grace.