clouds converge, crossing the sky,
in the close stillness of here and now
many things live hidden
A mind can be populated by opinions —
eyes look out, see only
what is set upon their curtains,
whole worlds can roll by unseen
but veils are sometimes lifted
The industry of mice, the vibrancy
of every effort creatures make
to be themselves, to thrive,
points to the uncounted ever-presence
resting, firm and gentle, on our days
Sun will grace us all —
no blinds, ultimately, close off our vision.
We will see the opening of comprehension
of how we’re woven, tenderly,
into our place.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 4, 2018
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