of not needing to say anything,
just hearing the sounds of the day
collected now in memory - conversation
and the whir of various instruments.
Memory, too, of how the sun warmed the air,
and brought out the scent of earth
And there were true things to communicate
but no sense of need
to be seen or understood,
and now there is the imprint
of having spoken,
but no further purpose for the words.
After all, it's not my role
to make a story of the day -
I fall in, like creek into river,
tributary to Spirit alone.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 6, 2022
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