Cherry blossom petals flutter, settle,
small insects — flitting sun specks —
oscillate between the shadows,
chickadees are house-hunting
Green leaves everywhere
present reflecting tops,
translucent undersides,
trembling in the light breeze
and the transfixing pleasure
of illumination
Robins have been singing
since early morning.
Clearly, this is the rhythm
in which life must unfold,
this is the model
for us to follow.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 9, 2016
Birds sing with the freshness
of air that has been warmed
by the sun, cooled in the night,
and awaits the cusp of morning,
the floating moment
where warm and cool
rest in perfect balance
and the most delicate fragrances
reach full volatility
Gratitude is the elixir
which gives rise to joy,
huge flocks of it
turning as one
filling up the whole day.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 8, 2016
The wind chimes sang to me
through the night
and into the morning —
they sweetened my dreams
and my prospects.
They were untiring
in their celebration of
the wind that came
up ocean, through trees,
across the craggy rocks of mountains,
bringing the fragrance of
the powerful rightness of everything,
that which returns each day, as if
all our pathetic twistedness
had not touched it at all
And indeed
the freshness that escapes
in these rifts of wind
is proof.
©Wendy Mulhern
March 10, 2016
Late February puts on spring
like an affect, the casual
lap of shadows
across the afternoon,
the sun, fleetingly benevolent,
early blooms taking full advantage
of a head start on processes,
tiny insects, at home in the moment,
inhabit this day — their only universe,
where air to them is viscous
and sun eternal.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 25, 2016
After such a mild winter,
spring comes casually —
plum buds plumpen,
crocuses unfurl,
folks in shorts and t shirts
stroll out of houses
There will be more rain —
socked in, dark dawns,
evenings blustering wind and mist,
but little promises will glint
around the middle of most days,
like deep pink quince
amid the winter green.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 16, 2016
It is evening
but the skylights haven’t darkened yet —
clouds are still visible beside the cedar treetops,
moving east
My mind reaches into the boldening gloaming
where daylight is stretching
visibly longer than just last week.
I feel the lifting off of a forgotten weight,
like clarity after dizziness,
like fog condensing on my eyelids as it dissipates
There can be comfort
in the rolling out of time,
February’s fleetness,
the winds of spring,
the progress of all life’s processes,
underground, overhead,
within.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 7, 2016
Still looking for the state of mind
where stones will float —
where the amazing heaviness —
the weight of a soul,
the depth of my caring —
will rise up
in the equipollence
of its brilliance,
lighting up itself
and all it shines on,
resting in the presence
of what it is
and the enduring gravity
of its essence.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 2, 2016
porcelain
Ah, heat! The fire teaches us
it is the release
of all that we have gathered
that warms us, and warms others
In the provision
of what the fire requires,
I recognize my corresponding needs:
enough air and enough proximity
to hold the heat within the burning core
The satisfaction
of the steady flame
responding to my nudging
lends a glow to heart,
hearth, earth, home.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 28, 2016
Vessel by Jennifer McCurdy, photo by Gary Mirando
Winter is not finished.
Perhaps it has not even begun —
it paces wide fields, pauses
in wooded corners,
turns with an abrupt flourish
of long, dark cloak,
releasing torrents — wind and rain,
maybe even snow
Head down, it broods,
and now and then
lifts blazing eyes
to meet your gaze,
to draw you in.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 22, 2016
When I’m still,
and ask for it,
the inspiration comes up swift,
quick welling from the deepest pools within me,
sudden flowing, as if struck from rock
But truly
relying on catchment —
all the collected liquid
from the upper hills
coalescing down, bubbling out,
Clearly not a thing conjured
with tricks of thought,
clearly testament to my context,
to the terrain in which I rise,
natural as weeds, as springs,
as love,
from every cradling crevice.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 10, 2016