There’s no hurry here
in the wayward wandering of bees
or in the darting flit of smaller insects,
No hurry in the dark, damp bed of seeds
as moisture slowly moves in
towards their center
No hurry in their swell, their split,
their first root sprout uncurling
Or in the turn of sun across the sky,
through soft cloud edges burning
All gifts that softly rise
against the glow of muted skies
or in the brilliance
of their unsheathed blue
know in their code
how they must grow
and so they do
There’s no hurry here:
You, too, can walk this calm,
drinking in the strength of days —
your hope, your balm.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 24, 2013