You wake and seek the life elixir
but the sap of trees is sleeping
and yours — perhaps it’s crusted over
in the stress of things you tell yourself

and the press of boxes you’ve taken in —
cold steel against the softness of your inner parts,
dull ache from where you try
to bend around them

But still there’s something —
the touch of air, or movement
against the blankets,
a feather breath of light, or of another,

and the warm liquid stirs, finds strength,
begins to run the lengths
up and down along the inside of your hopes —
you stretch yourself, you move,
you feel alive.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 13, 2020