Unnamed

With just a couple wrong turns,

I found myself in sorrow,

but sensed that every story

to present itself as cause

must be a lie

I will not grasp at them —

they are not even straws —

their only function

would be to tie me up in knots

It’s better to just let the sorrow

be its color of wet charcoal,

of eyes clamped shut,

the brown green of sobs

providing variegation

Better to walk through long grass

and give some little willows

a second chance to grow

beside the pond,

better to breathe

and look up at the day

and let the darkness be unnamed

and let the light in.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 11, 2019