If I hadn’t tried to write it in a poem, the thought, a little glimmer, would have expressed itself in far different ways. Did, in fact; I wrote a page in my journal about cleaning the house while thoughts hovered just at the edge of my accepting them - borderline negative, but held at bay by some impervious membrane. I came to the place of seeing how much the same we all are, for all our sense of singularity and frequent isolation. We all need to bring forth that within us which makes us who we are. In poetry, it came out like this:
There is no existential fact of night
the word speaks of the endless depth of space
the field wherein the play of stars is staged
Each star gives tribute to the light
Each star must serve the existential light
the pulse within, essential churning force
which rises out of need and tumbles forth
We see their sharp travail across the night
We see their offering across the night
and know we, too, must ever do the same
we too must birth our inner urgent flame
Each life gives tribute to the light.
©Wendy Mulhern
March 12, 2011
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