In the evening the wind stills,
and the work, though it continues till dusk,
is quieter — no thrum of generator,
no flap of windblown plastic,
just the intermittent buzz
of the skill saw, and the thunk
of extra rafter tail hitting the dirt
Later, we, too, will be still,
still in the aftermath of work,
still hefting lumber in our dreams.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 25, 2019
This morning it felt like fall —
fog through the valley, lifting into powder blue,
night’s chill and sun’s warmth coexisting,
different smells in dampness and in dry places,
readiness in the air
A flock of goldfinches
were very happy with our sunflowers,
exclaiming and conversing
as they landed, swaying,
on the flower heads
I woke up knowing
the only thing real
is the goodness of everything.
I saw it everywhere,
seeming to rest on things
but actually
being what they are.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 23, 2019
…in the heat of the day
and our leisurely pace
and our trek into town to do laundry
Overalls and garbage bags,
air condition, internet,
people we would never see
in any other circumstance
We built a wall today
(well, partially)
and we’ll build more tomorrow.
Young turkeys ran before us down our road
while swallows occupied the evening sky
…a little poem emerging
as the air cools down,
leaving space for words
I couldn’t find before.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 13, 2019
Turns out it’s good
for wind to blow through the house,
for windows to be open
I freed a hummingbird today
from plastic we had placed to keep out rain —
it fled my hands
and so got further stuck
until I broke the sheet away
and it escaped
The swallows still fly in and out,
but with the windows covered,
they got confused —
one had to make a stop inside,
perched on a rafter
before it could complete its outward swoop
Yes, we’re in a race against the weather,
but the game has its own rules —
apparently, for now, we need to make room
for others to play.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 12, 2019
When we found ourselves walking
along the ridge line of bones,
landscape swept clean,
the symbols of comfort provision
suddenly gone,
what surprised us
was the singing,
the clear searing melodic
bowing across the edge,
core resonant vibration
We had thought
that if we lacked the cushion
we’d be bereft,
but there we were,
strengthened and heartened
by the haunting song
that filled our every step —
teaching ourselves to ourselves,
walking us home.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 9, 2019
We stand at the brink of August
and consider the color changes —
grass from green to flaxen,
daisy stalks to brown
Sunflowers dominate the garden,
tomatoes coming in,
red tassels forming on the corn,
unknown peppers in dark green
There will be other years
when we can shepherd this,
when we have time and infrastructure
to tend the land —
for now we’ll do the work
to make us ready for it,
so we can read the signs
and understand.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 31, 2019
We found songs in the wilderness —
some were left for us
by ones who had traversed the path before —
they told of things
we hoped one day to see
Others rose out of the rock
and the work, and the constant travel,
and the bone pure perception,
in the air, in the stillness,
of the Truth that guided us
along the searing way
We sang songs in the wilderness,
and as the land began to green,
we recognized some things
that we had sung about so often,
only guessing and imagining
how they might be
We sang songs of the wilderness
resting in the promised land, rejoicing in the gardens,
learning the things our songs had named,
also remembering
how we were inspired
when we were headed here
from far away.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 30, 2019
We looked up, delighted to hear
in small strains, the refrain
of crickets returning
Soft, intermittent, rising and falling,
not in the trees where we heard them
in previous years,
not as a constant, a chorus that stretched
through the days and the nights of the summer
But cricket song, still, here in the fields,
slowly increasing to fill up the late afternoon —
a light recompense
for things we have lost,
a reminder that everything changes,
and things that are missing
can also return
to be loved and rejoiced in once more.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 24, 2019
This, right here, is the place of adventure,
here with the hole in the clouds
where blue sky sounds through,
here with the broken bootlace
and the black bugs that ate our greens,
here with the work that needs to be
pried and prised from our powers of invention,
and then, on top of that,
needs to be done
This is the place of adventure
where we plumb the depths
of our understanding, then go deeper,
where we live in the light
as far as we know it
and still keep going
There may be other adventures,
years down the line, lifetimes away,
but this is the path by which we’ll get there,
placing our feet down
in every step of today.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 23, 2019
The true thing
present in this green and golden
afternoon, with events suspended
while time ripens
and firs sing wind songs
while little birds converse
The true thing,
older than all the human stories,
newer than anything we’ve thought before,
is Life’s unfurling of itself
in multiple dimensions,
in ever awe-inducing harmony
for all of us to be.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 19, 2019