Clouds with a purpose
make their way across the hills,
leaning in to their destination,
companionable in their quantity
Tousled daisies tell the news
to each other in little flurries
of excitement,
(I keep taking my jacket off
and putting it on)
It may rain
We may abandon our work, or,
having no excuse, we may continue —
We are working easy today,
our hands not minding
the halting pace of our minds.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 13, 2016
Arc of the day —
the silvered breath of early morning,
dew-clad ferns and grasses,
the warming climbing sun,
Arc of sounds — rousing calls
of turkeys, ravens,
mourning doves chiming in later,
cicadas at mid day, blackbirds
all day long, tits and finches
at intervals
Arc of the year — grasses
turning green, then pink and purple,
darkening heads, the onset of golden,
arc of their stalks, bending in the wind,
Arc of blooming — iris, ox-eyes, self-heal,
blackberry, roses
Ark of the covenant —
yea, verily —
all these moments are held
in the perfect curve of joy,
graceful bend of honor
and humility,
softly domed
by the arc of sky.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 12, 2016
The fledgling crow stood on the bench
for a long time, its eyes blinking,
its claws crooked on the planks,
its tail feathers stubby.
I watched it for a long time,
until its final stubby flight
into the grass by the fence
I watched another one later
(or perhaps the same one)
balancing on too-thin branches
in the brush pile — tentative shifting,
weighing the give of the branch
against the thrust of take-off,
hopping to equally flimsy branches,
getting ready to try again
We are so very much like these crows,
almost or maybe able to fly,
blinking for a long time
in the uncertainty of the tasks at hand,
lovingly watched over all the while.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 9, 2016
The tree said:
I am not my branches —
my branches are just pathways.
I am the pulsing center of energy
that pushes up and out and down
through branches and roots,
and if none are there, or if
they’re in the wrong place,
I make new ones
You and I, the tree told me,
are not that different.
You are not your limbs,
nor yet the sum
of who you’ve known,
and what you’ve done.
You’re not bound to the patterns
you’ve lived so many different times
You, too, can pull yourself back
to the dynamic source core,
you can concentrate your center
and from there surge out
in the way that makes
the most embracing umbrella
your love can offer.
You, too, can stabilize the atmosphere,
you, too, can establish life.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 7, 2016
In time we stopped wishing
we knew someone
who knew the answers,
stopped fearing
we would make terrible, stupid mistakes.
In this place, we are pioneers,
alone in the stature of our own thoughts
As we work
the generous scent of kindness
rises from the land,
blackbirds trill by the pond,
a raven riffs in a nearby forest
while songbirds fill the closer,
lower, places
with their exuberance
What we need to know
will come to us
in the logic of our needs
and in our birthright of belonging.
We find clarity as we listen,
we will fill our place
as surely as all of these.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 30, 2016
I love the way our yard is now
with the kiwi vine pushing through the artichoke,
heading up the cherry tree,
with the honeysuckle in full bloom
(rhodies now spent)
and the chickadees flitting back and forth
to their vociferous young
I am happy with the lush greenness
of all the weeds, and the upward insistence
of herbs gone to seed
and the young trees offering young fruits,
feeding us now with hope
I recognize it will be daunting
when we need to bring it all in line,
a task I’ll face next year, perhaps —
for now, for me, it’s fine.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 27, 2016
Let me not presume
to have the self-importance
to get it wrong. To tell myself
“if only you see better,
and rightly understand,
then all will flourish —
if your life is blighted,
you need to work harder”
Let me not imagine,
in the face of the fullness
of everything,
that I have the power
to get it wrong.
It’s not in me —
Life will provide me
an answer of peace.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 24, 2016
Each step we take is tiny.
There is, it seems, extreme effort
to any thing we can say in a sentence
that we did —
It’s astonishing
we don’t accomplish more
Yet we find a sense of owning, of tending,
that grows as if without our efforts —
I feel the land responding,
settling in to trusting us,
moving, generous, to aid
the things we’ve planned
Grand things will happen,
but it’s good to know
we are already here.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 16, 2016
Let’s not call ourselves lazy,
as the wind plays the chimes
and ushers cherry blossom petals,
not unkindly, along,
as needle fall, from douglas fir,
makes its dry ptick against the wooden bench
Let’s not call ourselves lazy
to be lifted thus, by sun and scented breeze,
to notice the pace of insects,
to be in dialog with what will grow,
in gentle give and take
with what the garden offers
Indeed, it is not lazy
to honor the pace
of our breath, our days,
to take time to listen,
and know to offer
only what, right here, right now
can be received
These tendrils we develop,
these tender patterns we pioneer,
will prove essential
as our sights clear.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 14, 2016
Nothing is mundane
when the fragrance of blossoms
blesses every breath
and blackbirds and robins
sing its praise
Nothing is mundane
when the inner greening
continues tender
and rapt attention
finds its place
All the dead blackberry stalks
have become brittle,
and though they still may snag,
they can be snapped away,
they can be left behind,
space can be made
for what is soft and fresh and sweet,
we can be defined
by where we are alive.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 10, 2016