Days are getting colder —
wind shifts the sun between radiant and bleak,
my face feels the glow of heat
from fires and indoor furnaces
Here at the bakery
amid the generosity of pies,
I imagine holidays,
bringing forth a steaming offering
suffused in gratitude
The place, the faces
are undetermined
but I can hope
Life will provide
all the needed elements
for the occasion,
all that will be given and received.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 10, 2018
The day we live in
as we walk side by side —
is it the same day? Or is each day,
for each of us, the color mixing of
our outlook and our observation?
The land we walk on —
does it speak the same,
up through your shoes —
do you feel the message
in its ancient language,
the calming reassurance of belonging,
the fleetingness of time
and its irrelevance?
Certainly we both feel
the uplift of the crickets’ tireless chorus
and that exhilarating quality
of sun-warmed air through fir trees
The day we move through
may not be the same
but there are signs
that both of us receive.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 15, 2018
Frost greets us —
silver gift, celebrated
by morning birds —
singular recipe —
beauty, severity
Much as the early chill
made luscious the warmth of covers
and each other’s bodies,
though soon, work demanded
that we rise
The climbing sun brings warmth,
first in its radiance,
later in the winds
which started frigid
but soon were balmy
Tonight we’ll drain the pipes
against the freeze,
the crescent moon will set,
the stars will send their cold light down,
tomorrow we’ll await
the same steep curves,
seasoned by season’s turn,
well met in grace.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 14, 2018
The rain is gentle
and the early fall is gracious,
leaves on the ground and in the trees
fringing the streets with color
Artisan spiders weave raindrop gems
into their webs,
coziness settles in
with the darkened sky —
I may be solo
but I’m not alone.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 1, 2018
We do what we can
in the aftermath of tears,
in the relentless beauty of days
and the work that is too much for us
We will go home again
tired to the bone, and weathered,
but also saturated in song —
tree song and cricket song
and the creaking flap of raven flight
We will return, as we have
so many times. We’ll take up
the work we couldn’t finish.
We’ll struggle through the cold
of the long edges of days
and be graced by their brilliance,
and learn the meaning of work,
perhaps. And the meaning of praise.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 24, 2018
No one is left behind —
not at the laundromat
or the cafe´, not on the shoals
of screen-fed expectations
The song that rises unexpected
from the woman in the car next to ours
while we wait for laundry in the parking lot
shows that there’s room in every life
for grace
No one is left behind,
not even me — I can’t be left
to wander in the wasteland
of looking from the outside
at other people’s lives
at the laundromat, at the cafe´,
along the streets of Springfield
on a Saturday, where other people
have lives that might be less disconnected
than ours. Or maybe not.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 22, 2018
Insect arcs like flecks of sun
flit across my path —
I see them as threads
weaving in parts of a pattern
I knew about in theory
and still don’t understand,
but now can see a bit more
of what they’re connected to
My path, this inefficient tracing
back and forth, up and down
along the day
is also flecked with sun
and the reflections of my mind
and the rhythm of my gait —
these, too, are all part of the same thing
which I haven’t mastered
but can dance in.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 21, 2018
After all, why wouldn’t we
want to share our little cabin with mice?
It’s the warmth, I think,
that attracts them,
more than the food,
about which we’ve been careless
One day after rain
in the chill of evening
we lit a fire
to make things cozy
and early the next morning
we heard running in the roof
And this evening we found a little mouse
fallen down onto the hearth.
My husband captured it
and took it for a long walk
He said it was just a baby.
I said, if it’s a baby, maybe it’s a rat —
a soothing thought to take to bed.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 18, 2018
It’s no small thing that we are given,
an afternoon with wind and ravens,
wind occasioning the dance of gracious firs,
ravens giving distant comment
There’s more — the blue of sky,
the blessing of companion hammocks,
the sense of never again needing
to have a story,
the blessed absence of internal words.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 2, 2018
You are here —
please notice
the colors in the grass
and the way the air is moving
There may be swallows darting
and deer walking and watching,
there probably are turkeys
You may be headed somewhere
but you are also here —
please fill your senses
and let your heart breathe.
You are here —
please go slow and notice.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 12, 2018