There was nothing substantial
to make a poem with
in that squid-inky mass of emotions
that squished around on the currents
of deep sighs, and a breeze
a little too cold to fall asleep in,
a state that could pass
like the swing of a hammock
or an adjacent snore
of exhaustion, late in the afternoon
of a day so unabashedly brilliant
that no kind of lostness
made any sense,
yet there it was,
waiting to be redeemed.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 23, 2019
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