Going to Bed

-
by George Bilgere

I check the locks on the front door
and the side door,
make sure the windows are closed
and the heat dialed down.
I switch off the computer,
turn off the living room lights.

I let in the cats.

Reverently, I unplug the Christmas tree,
leaving Christ and the little animals
in the dark.

The last thing I do
is step out to the back yard
for a quick look at the Milky Way.

The stars are halogen-blue.
The constellations, whose names
I have long since forgotten,
look down anonymously,
and the whole galaxy
is cartwheeling in silence through the night.

Everything seems to be ok.

Comments

  1. RoseDecember 19, 2009 at 5:37 AM

    Hey, I heard this one on Writer's almanac too! Love it! Thanks for keeping your blog going, I love the poetry you find and share.

    ReplyDelete
  2. UnknownDecember 19, 2009 at 6:11 AM

    Beautiful...thank you....smiles.

    ReplyDelete
  3. RudeeDecember 19, 2009 at 6:33 AM

    Oh, this does sound like a perfect night. I hope it's not cloudy tonight so I can take a peek at the constellations. Most times, I forget to look at the stars. Thanks for the reminder to do so!

    ReplyDelete
  4. JetDecember 21, 2009 at 2:22 AM

    Your blog is very nice :) .I really like it !
    Merry Xmas ^^!


    ----------------------------------
    Welcome to my website : http://9wallpapers.blogspot.com/ . This
    is a website where have a lot of beautiful wallpapers .Especially ,
    all free !!!!

    ReplyDelete
  5. debraDecember 21, 2009 at 8:48 PM

    I love the imagery in this poem. thanks for posting it
    xo

    ReplyDelete
  6. Annie CoeDecember 22, 2009 at 6:49 AM

    I thought I was the only one who looked at the stars before bed, though I don't go outside as it is below 0 most evenings :-). Lovely poem.
    Happy Christmas to you!!! xoxo

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

Popular posts from this blog

A Year with EB White

-
Image
"You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. A spider's life can't help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that."----- from Charlotte's Web I am a soul always drawn and fascinated by the idea of " A Year of...". A Year of Rumi. A Year of Calvin and Hobbes. A year cooking with Julia Child. A project that provides guidance for the year and a ruler we can measure inward growth in the course of our circle around the sun. One year, after an early marriage and an unsurprising--except to me--early divorce, I came across a book by Sue Hubbell titled A Country Year. I didn't plan for it to take a year to read, but it did. I only read it at night before I went t
Read more

The Poet Goes to Indiana by Mary Oliver

-
Image
I'll tell you a half-dozen things that happened to me in Indiana when I went that far west to teach. You tell me if it was worth it. I lived in the country with my dog— part of the bargain of coming. And there was a pond with fish from, I think, China. I felt them sometimes against my feet. Also, they crept out of the pond, along its edges, to eat the grass. I'm not lying. And I saw coyotes, two of them, at dawn, running over the seemingly unenclosed fields. And once a deer, but a buck, thick-necked, leaped into the road just-oh, I mean just, in front of my car— and we both made it home safe. And once the blacksmith came to care for the four horses, or the three horses that belonged to the owner of the house, and I bargained with him, if I could catch the fourth, he, too, would have hooves trimmed for the Indiana winter, and apples did it, and a rope over the neck did it, so I won something wonderful; and there was, one morning, an owl flying, oh pale angel, into the hay loft o
Read more

Goldfinches by Mary Oliver

-
Image
Some goldfinches were having a melodious argument at the edge of a puddle. The birds wanted to bathe, or perhaps just to dip their heads and look at themselves, and they were having trouble with who should be first, and so on. So they discussed it while I stood in the distance, listening. Perhaps in Tibet, in the old holy places, they also have such fragile bells. Or are these birds really just that, bells come to us--come to this road in America--let us bow our heads and remember now how we used to do it, say a prayer. Meanwhile the birds bathe and splash and have a good time. Then they fly off, their dark wings opening from their bright, yellow bodies; their tiny feet, all washed, clasping the air.
Read more