Frost lines the edges of our days,
encasing them with torpor,
lacing us with eagerness for warmth,
of which there is enough, still, in the middles,
for us to work, for us to dream
And in the morning and the evening,
fire is our friend —
it takes the edge off,
fills us with ease again.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 28, 2019
Before the sun set,
the first silvered wisps of fog
began to form low in the valley,
tending slightly upward
as they drifted south
Five minutes later
the valley had begun to fill,
fog rising between trees
setting off the different distances,
the fall colors looked more red
amid the rising clouds
Meanwhile, behind the hills,
the sun had set
and the sky was turning red,
marbled and magnificent
And I thought: here, just here,
is exactly where I want to be,
above this valley and on this journey,
upward as I’m led, attended by beauty.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 22, 2019
I say no to this cat
but she proves I’m not serious,
pushing her way nose first
into my lap,
waving her tail in my face
We compromise —
she gets to stay here
if she sits still,
if she lets me write
As for the mind of cats —
she must think it very strange,
all the little things I find
to busy myself — pointless things,
when I could be affording her a lap,
reveling in mammal warmth,
feeling the sunshine
There is a place
for butterscotch fur
and a tail that waves just so,
and a secret hunting side
to keep sheathed,
except for a touch of needle claws
against my thighs.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 12, 2019
At the call of rain
so much green springs eager —
it doesn’t calculate
its prospects for the season,
whether it will become
a spreading plant or just a small sprout —
the rain has summoned it
so up it comes.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 18, 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
I sit on the cabin porch
and wait for the rain,
listening to thunder
and the rattle of the neighbor’s tractor
as he tries to get his grass mowed in time.
The wind comes up, the daisies and the firs
send message —
I can smell it, I will see it soon
A doe is nonchalantly
grazing in the meadow,
little birds are quiet
while trucks keep rolling home,
and the rain is here
fresh and rhythmic on the roof,
the place we are suddenly grows small
but we are dry
and there is room enough.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 27, 2019
Mice tease out the seeds
from grass heads, and they weave
the soft chaff into bedding
(I know because
when we moved lumber
we found a stash)
I don’t know if they camp
or homestead. I don’t know
if we uprooted them
or if they were long gone
I know they have busy hands
and keen noses, and they seek heat
and water, and soft fiber,
and they get around.
I know they can live without us
but I think they would rather not.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 26, 2019
The day fills up with
the bobbing of grass shafts,
their heads identifying
distinct natures
above the blades
The day fills up with
winds that rise and fall
and the clicks and tocks of ravens
and the crystal-colored calls
of blackbirds
The day is full of
the presence of Spirit
rising up through everything,
causing and being everything,
each seed head and foot fall,
each breath, each perception,
each grace.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 19, 2019
The wind sings through the fence,
tousles daisies, sends waves
of wheat-colored shimmer
through otherwise green grasses,
lends a gentle respite from the heat
We work on tasks for the mind —
how to see things, how to count,
what to count as real, what counts,
cicadas keep us company –
the welling and receding of their song
is counterpoint to trees’ rustle
and drone to melodies
of distant birds.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 13, 2019
It is a time of baby birds,
tiny choruses at intermittent times
from hidden places somewhere in the trees,
parents busy nabbing bugs
from fir and fern,
a flit that finally reveals their home
There is a joy in knowing without seeing
the daily hum of life,
hearing it move between the glimpses,
within the rustle of the wind,
sensing that, the longer we are here
the more of it we’ll understand.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 11, 2019