There's no end to the joy of climbing into bed,
And hearing your wife rustling about nearby;
There's no end to the delight of the huge covers.
There's no end to the delight of hearing your body
Rumbling and the night waiting to capture you,
And take you off to your childhood bed.
There is no end to the joy of sensing your toes
Feel around at the bottom of the bed,
For the invisible dog that is sleeping there.
There is no end to thanking your parents;
There is no end to rubbing your feet after a run,
No end to the delight when the door closes.
There's no end to the joy of snuggling down
And pulling up the covers after you,
And saying goodbye to the world once more.
Isn't it enough—this being done for now,
And sensing the sea closing over you,
Free at last from intelligence with its huge hands.
There is no end to enjoying it again
And again, this dawdling at the end of day
And so slipping backward toward childhood again.
"Climbing into Bed" by Robert Bly. Text as published in The Cortland Review (Winter, 2011). Hear Bly read his poem on the publisher's page.
Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.