Our Days

We do what we can

in the aftermath of tears,

in the relentless beauty of days

and the work that is too much for us

We will go home again

tired to the bone, and weathered,

but also saturated in song —

tree song and cricket song

and the creaking flap of raven flight

We will return, as we have

so many times. We’ll take up

the work we couldn’t finish.

We’ll struggle through the cold

of the long edges of days

and be graced by their brilliance,

and learn the meaning of work,

perhaps. And the meaning of praise.

©Wendy Mulhern

September 24, 2018