Accounts

And to the dream, when you arise,

you’re not required to say goodbye . . . 

What of these days

will I take with me?

I see this span of brightnesses,

their traces left in photographs,

the moments we were lucky

to have noticed —

More joy, perhaps, in pauses

than in efforts to do something

to make memories . . . 

Time gets foreshortened,

changes, measured in height and hair,

grow less pronounced,

While timeless qualities, less noticed then,

shine forth

And everything is colored 

in the way I feel right now —

few memories can hold their early hues

What of these days will I take with me

when my arc no longer intersects this sphere?

— Here’s all I know for sure:

The place I am will always be my here.

©Wendy Mulhern

July 7, 2014