In the quiet of twilight
birds fly, and people walk or drive
to one perch or another

All of these
are like seeds,
every one of them full
of the glorious hopefulness of life
that chortles and bubbles
as if to burst its envelope
but which, instead, carries them along,
puts bounce into their being,
sings the song of them
even as they live it

Every one of them waiting
for the sure sign of their belovedness
so they can spring forth, holding back nothing,
so they can relax, borne up
on overflowing joy

Every one of them precious
in the eyes of anyone
who chooses to see them,
every one of them able
(on being seen)
to deliver the whole world.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 30, 2017