My whole world consisted of a blanket and a flashlight those summer nights. Well, and the books, but they were only portals.

A scorching light, so bright and hot to feel Constricted air, in muffled, humid tent Pajama-collar-filtered breaths I steal In private cave alight with wonderment.

My sisters and I shared the whole open top story of our house as a giant bedroom and play room. My older sister had claimed the walk-in closet as “her room” and crammed her bed and dresser in there despite the seeming impossibility of the thing. My twin sister and I shared a bunk-bed at the far end of the long space.

A shave of silver moon past curtains peers, The printed rooster pattern drained of hue. The cockerels there depicted no man hears, Young night is here, and crowing is not due.

We had a library in the room, a corner lined with bookshelves and mini recliners just our size. Books were like breathing to me. Whenever I was engrossed, bedtime meant nothing, as long as I could hide my intentions. Mom would say, “Good night,” and I would watch her down the stairs before beginning my clandestine journey through the printed word.

The shroud retracts, swift hand pulls it away. The stuffy air, now freed, is fled afar; An envelope of dark and cold takes sway, My beaming torch now shrunk like pinprick star.

Of course I got away with it most of the time, but my mom would catch me occasionally. Motivated by love for her daughters, by worry, or by some small slip on my part, she would approach the bed unknown to me; I was lost in worlds and stories and barely felt my human presence, there beneath the blanket. She was gentle, but firm. The flashlight and the book were removed. She would kiss my forehead and tuck me in, smoothing the hair from my brow and saying, “You need your sleep. The book can wait until you wake up tomorrow.”

The silken touch of night caresses cheeks Which, turning, softly rustle pillow heaps. Transported mind transforms in what it seeks, Continuing to dreams in bounds and leaps.

I wouldn’t know that I had fallen asleep until the next morning when I woke up, morning sun blazing through the crack in the curtains, determined to finish the book.

The trickling time begets another day. With seeds of story sown, adventures wait For reaping, each to joy or dark decay, But never bookish penchant to abate.