It felt good
to sit on the deck
weaving stories out of memory and light,
while the fog thinned
and hummingbirds chipped and whirred
through the old cherry tree.
It felt good
to finish the edges of that yarn —
to see it whole,
and then to come inside
for tea and conversation
(our voices calibrated
so as not to wake the sleepers)
morning rolling towards noon,
while steller’s jays
riled the little birds
and colors glowed brighter
against the clearing sky.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 18, 2013