Consent

So gently wooed we are

by quiet songs that thrum

against our bones,

through urgings, ocean deep,

that, irresistible, sweep us

into the slowly rising current

We can pretend we haven’t heard,

pretend we aren’t moving,

pretend we don’t notice

how our yearning now

has gained a little courage,

how it senses itself part of something grand

which never is delayed

and cannot be ignored

We are wooed gently

so we won’t resist

until it’s too late —

Too late because we’ve thrown our whole consent —

our hearts, our hopes, our will —

into the thronging force

that bears us on.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 22, 2015