This morning I made my bed. I tucked in the corners, presuming to smooth out the rumpled chaos.
Out and about, seeing I had clearly made a mess of everything, I thought of my well-made bed.
I still make my bed! And I bet you do, too.
Had I the courage I would make a new bed beneath a primeval forest canopy. I would keep vigil until first light, when the morning wind would rustle the matted leaves, indented the night before by my unremarkable life, and whirl them away.