While waiting for sleep
I can think about
lost love, or just as easily,
moss on logs, their curving velvet
catching luminescence
from some unseen source

I can feel the fall of my stomach
against the sheets,
I can feel my feet,
toes pressed against heel.
I can pay attention to my breathing,
slow and deep, with satisfying pauses
at the bottom of each breath

Perhaps I feel, at times,
a haunting tug, from just around
the curl of thought,
reminding me that I could cry and cry,
but by and by
I’d need to recognize
these dramas are my own concoction.

I’ll wait for sleep.
It will come, no doubt,
while I’m somewhere else.

©Wendy Mulhern
February 11, 2016

A duck swims across my shadow
and moves on,
A seagull preens itself, and squeals,
Trucks rumble and beep,
out of sight, but with great echoing clatter,
Little waves lip the shore and ripple back.

The sun is not as warm as I expected,
Still welcome, after my shaded ride.
I’m wishing I could take it with me
going home.

Not every day has deep epiphanies.
Some, like this one,
have a slight smell of fish,
great strides of satisfying productivity,
and an easy feeling of well-being

Some days, like this one
ride high in the present joy
without much to say about it.

©Wendy Mulhern
February 9, 2016

My mind feels inscrutable
as this still, gray day —
neither stormy nor yet
becoming night

There are no impending howls
and no exhilaration —
I am tempted to shut down
and wait for a clearer dawn.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 4, 2016