Nothing is mundane
when the fragrance of blossoms
blesses every breath
and blackbirds and robins
sing its praise

Nothing is mundane
when the inner greening
continues tender
and rapt attention
finds its place

All the dead blackberry stalks
have become brittle,
and though they still may snag,
they can be snapped away,
they can be left behind,
space can be made
for what is soft and fresh and sweet,
we can be defined
by where we are alive.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 10, 2016