A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when the

The story, in full

The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.

The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Softer. Just the breath.

Leave it there. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Sleep.

Let the next part go past without you. Just the dark. Stay.

It works with other people in the house. You do not need silence.

The end. Sleep well.

18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.