My mother slept. Well, she worked, and worked hard.
And she slept when not at work.
She excelled at sleeping,--an adept, a maestro,
a Svengali of somnolence.
And she tried, I know she tried
to be the best mother she could be,
but I could not wake her from what I now know
was the formal garden one lays out
against the fecund weeded chaos,
a fleeting snooze against a lingering insanity.