The old story must
fall away like a husk
for it is too dry
to sustain the living—
those who now stride
into their own
Since there is no place for them
in the old story—
No job, no niche, not even
one small joy to suck on,
They will turn
and find their sustenance within
and with each other
And those who managed the old story
may try, once again, to recalibrate—
Give them just enough juice
so they will stay
But it’s too late
The load has tipped:
With a grand whoosh
all the piled up lies
will slide into oblivion
And we will put forth
our new green.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 22, 2012