I lit a fire this morning,
up before dawn,
before the sun slowly glowed
through the fog
Hot water rippled from the kettle
for my tea, the cabin
filled with warmth by then,
daylight peaking in
Later, for awhile,
the sun warmed everything it touched,
but evening finds us hoarding warmth,
holding close to heat sources,
seeking to absorb enough
to ease us through the night.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 1, 2019
The straight line of our intent
begins to meet the season’s curve —
bracken fern starting to turn,
and trees along the river
Garden plants have given up,
the coming rain too late,
other factors we can’t see
informing them
their time of growth is over
No longer can we count on
stretches of long, sunny days —
they shorten, and the rains
begin to take their place
We will bend, because we have to,
we will find a way,
our intent will weave itself in,
for the circle belongs to us, too.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 8, 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
The day lasts much longer
outside the cabin,
mud and snow,
wind and radiant sun,
surprising green revealed by snowmelt,
fresh as spring
We have made this
little box of warmth
we can retreat to,
though it’s darker here
Night will bring moonlight
reflected on the last of the snow,
cold will draw all the heat
out from the floor
while we stay warm by snuggling
till morning comes again
with opportunities
for fire and sun.
©Wendy Mulhern
March 3, 2019
January feast —
(many miles to go)
wind against my cheeks,
sand between my toes
Vision of the sea
shining in its thunder,
waves against the beach,
reaching, curling under
The ocean drew me there
with promise of delight
for eyes and ears and feet —
it didn’t disappoint
Now I ride home,
the headwind pushing back,
I feel the distance,
I feel my hunger,
but I am glad, too,
well fed by what I’ve seen —
I don’t know when next,
but I’ll be back again.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 6, 2019
Rain and wind have washed the night,
the day comes boisterous, all gusts
and pent up clouds, released to romp
in blue, to stretch across the day
Grasses graced in gold and green
show silver sides before the wind,
and though it’s winter — many storms
to come before the spring —
the earth and sea both feel awake,
alert with life
I too can feel the ever present freshness
within, without — I too can be made new.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 1, 2019
It was a time of
birds and boats
and floating mountains
and, within the now established fact
of winter, a softening,
brought on by clouds
that blanketed the night
and now let sun across
the distant banks and peaks,
colors and coldness both muted,
a space for gentleness to rise
and be felt
by everything that shared this day.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 8, 2018
In this autumn time
when hours put forth
their ever-changing views
as light dances with fog and leaves
and birds we haven’t seen before
make their appearance
We can breathe wonder,
we can breathe hope,
we may notice
as often as we notice breath —
not all the time,
though it, too, is continuous.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 22, 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 sun, in its soft patina,
is almost balmy, deflating the last
dirty pockets of snow.
We have shored up the larder, ready
for yet another snow dump,
another Nor’easter
It may be equinox
but these things are not divided equally.
As always, we ride along close to the ground,
feeling every bump of the season,
not seeing the longer view,
not really minding, either.
©Wendy Mulhern
March 20, 2018