It’s time.
It’s time to pierce this bland shroud,
this heavy and impermeable sense
of being held down,
of having an internal weight
that droops my efforts ever toward inertia,
proclaiming all that’s good must end
while what is bad will rumble on forever

Every live thing testifies otherwise:
Every green shoot pushes up and out
against its boundaries,
reveling in strength
turning the downward pull
into its springboard
in its eternal act of living power

Every sentient being
delights in helping others,
in striking up the magic multiplying
chords of giving joy
that flow in sweet increase from hand to hand,
that sing forever down the grateful land.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 19, 2015