We approach the year’s end
as uncelebrating
as every brown leaf
that blows along the ground,
as every squirrel that scuffles
among the leaves,
as every insect sleeping in its dried up stalk,
as all the crows that have gone home by now
It’s just one day into the next,
the rain, the fog, the winter light,
the stillness of the evening,
the morning’s breath
In other times, in other energies,
we made a mark here,
found some significance,
some grand design for change,
but this time round we’re flying low,
conserving strength,
hugging the curve of darkness
till the light returns.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 31, 2019
Perfect again!!
I thought my son and I were alone in craving quiet. We can’t understand the fuss over a calendar
Upon contemplation I decided that I move with the seasons. Not the calendar!!
I love this poem!!
Gracias !!!!
Thank you —