I.
Hands high, palms
facing outwards, head back
An attitude of seeking
Hoping for a jolt of
some kind of spirit
some kind of truth
(or that which wafts in
on cellos’ orchestrated chords
that tug across you
swaying you inside
lifting your essence in supplication)
You wait.
II.
In the soul’s-mirth dawn
where melody has traced
a path that wandered
till the whole song was covered
and the rising chords suffuse the background
(rose and orange and magenta)
You shake off
the benightedness of night—
its last remaining muddles
dispersing like water drops
now bright with sun
Already so immersed in Spirit
you don’t even need to dive.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 14, 2011
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