I. Morning

I follow the sounds of your movement —
the wheelbarrow’s melodic trundle,
the slow squeal of the front door;
I feel the track of early sun
through the boughs of Douglas Fir —
the cool, the warm, the cool,
the bright, the more subdued

II. Evening

Now the moon
grows brighter as it rises,
The kettle’s mounting pitch approaches boil,
Piano music warbles on the radio,
The old man sits there — possibly he hears.

And you and I have worked
and we are tired, but satisfied —
The day has held us through its arc
and brought us, whole, to eventide.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 13, 2014