Wind blows the rain
through the night,
through the trees,
through the memories
of the day’s events
and intermittent ponderings

The night is long,
the times of waking frequent,
bones and thoughts
surface restless between dreams

When I fed the old man
my mouth opened with his,
closed with his around the spoon,
my lips together
as I slipped it from his mouth,
imagining the sustenance,
the lubrication,
his mouth moving like tortoises’
and scallops’

In the sun-washed morning
in the kitchen
you taste the aura of a new day —
you want to wrap us all in it,
you want us to bask in light
and multiply the brightness.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 22, 2017