Who can calculate
the worth of these moments
of coming part way out of sleep,
turning over, and returning —
not fully —
just enough to touch base
with the sinuous, lusty reality
of being here, now
in this body?
With the certain vitality
of plants in spring
reaching for growth,
With the confidence of currents
of being one
with the flow of life.
By morning
they have woven
a springy web
to hold me
in the brightness of the day,
to show me
which way to turn my leaves
to drink the sun.
©Wendy Mulhern
March 31, 2013
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