With just a couple wrong turns,
I found myself in sorrow,
but sensed that every story
to present itself as cause
must be a lie

I will not grasp at them —
they are not even straws —
their only function
would be to tie me up in knots

It’s better to just let the sorrow
be its color of wet charcoal,
of eyes clamped shut,
the brown green of sobs
providing variegation

Better to walk through long grass
and give some little willows
a second chance to grow
beside the pond,
better to breathe
and look up at the day
and let the darkness be unnamed
and let the light in.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 11, 2019