Sleep, Be Not Death

When I was young, 
I could not sleep 
easily. I was afraid. 

I had heard talk 
of a pope or a bishop – 
some holy man – who died, 
“Thank the good Lord, 
peacefully, in his sleep,” 
which pleased the teller, 
my Grandma Mary, 
but which scared 
the sleep out of me. 

In the dark 
that night, 
I could not see 
whether I was alone 
or not; I wanted company – 
but comforting and kind. 

If I closed my eyes, 
yielded all thought, 
gave myself to mindless sleep 
and uncontrolled dreams, 
would I ever wake 
or be locked within, 
never to live again 
to play and daydream? 

Frightened, I prayed 
and prayed myself 
to sacred sleep, an omen 
of my grown-over faith. 

Amen.