And to the dream, when you arise,
you’re not required to say goodbye . . .

What of these days
will I take with me?

I see this span of brightnesses,
their traces left in photographs,
the moments we were lucky
to have noticed —
More joy, perhaps, in pauses
than in efforts to do something
to make memories . . .

Time gets foreshortened,
changes, measured in height and hair,
grow less pronounced,
While timeless qualities, less noticed then,
shine forth

And everything is colored
in the way I feel right now —
few memories can hold their early hues

What of these days will I take with me
when my arc no longer intersects this sphere?
— Here’s all I know for sure:
The place I am will always be my here.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 7, 2014