It was raining this morning, as it has been for the last several days, and according to the weather report, will continue to do so for the next several days. The trees and plants have been gorging themselves on the rainwater, plumping up so fully that the lushness in our yard and as far as the eye can see approaches obscenity.
If my vocation were reading and writing and lolling around in bed until the rain gives way to sunshine, all would be well. But this is not YET the case and I must get up to do other kinds of work. But my bed is so perfectly warm and welcoming during this seemingly endless drizzle - my body so reluctant to pull itself out of the soft embrace of pillow and blanket.
I've never understood those who leap out of bed as soon as they wake, ready to take on the world like a rabid dog. How they can be cheery and hungry. How they can even move at all. Or why they would want to. Why enter the day in such a jarring manner? Why make the bed so soon, smoothing out the wrinkles, whipping the blankets into submission, erasing all traces of the sleep one only just rose from?
No. Sleep is a love affair made fresh each evening. It should linger, cling to one's skin like the sweat of a lover. Hypnagogic tendrils left to soften the brow and plump the skin. The bed, like the lover, should not be left so abruptly, but slipped away from reluctantly - a hand trailing and lingering just a moment longer.
Now that I've written this, it only makes sense that this week's word prompt should be: