What makes a day prosaic?
Surely it’s not a quality of light
or the result of designated tasks,
or the company kept
or the internal landscape of my mind
All of these are full of poetry,
each, when focused, accesses a portal
opening, kaleidoscopic,
to infinity
Maybe it’s the flurry,
the attention taken
by stringed disparate tasks —
how they get loaded
in the barrel of efficiency
and lobbed forth —
how then I fail to feel
the gravity, and poetry, of each.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 16, 2019
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