September Ends

 

September ends. Early the morning

I saw the smile
of the waning crescent moon
above the hills, between the clouds,
promising a good day later

I went back to sleep.
The sun came up, and later
the clouds crowded in,
the wind came up, and then
the light rain

September ends,
drawing a shade of melancholy
across the evening.
October will have its own tale.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 30,  2021

Reading for much of the day

 

I tried to pull myself away

from images from someone else's life,
considered if another night
of dreams not quite my own
was in store for me

In the end, the tendency
to hang my life like laundry,
to scrutinize it in the light of others' stories
is nothing that can help me

We will all meet up together
on the deeper plane
far more important
than the holes and stains
in my shirts or in my narrative  -
this source we share
that lets us recognize each other,
this source that lets us recognize ourselves.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 28,  2021

The song that I am

 

I'm called now to notice

the kindness with which
the line of my life has been laid down,
the patience with me in the places
where I let fear and arrogance
cast me indelible
to colors and lines I was offered

How I've been given, each time,
another opportunity
to receive the opening
that will render me more alive, more true,
to my intended being. Look,
this isn't a finite page, a finite play,
this isn't a chance I could miss

This is the infinite,
this is its song of me,
these are the colors, the lines and the light,
this is the life that is steadily given me,
this is the song that I am.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 27,  2021

Carpet

 

This time of year the fir needles
provide a tranquil carpet -
if it is disturbed,
they quickly restore it,
as if nothing ever walked through here,
nothing ever scuffed its way
along some unthinking course -

Give it a day
and the vision of peace rests,
unforgettable, on the afternoon,
showing that everything has its own place,
everything falls according to plan.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 26,  2021

Thirty-nine years

 

Thirty-nine years,  and I'm only just
coming to know you.
Fair enough to say I'm only just
coming to know myself

Before that, we were playing house,
impressing ourselves
with all that we knew,
many times confident,
many times feeling adrift

And then the storms came,
and for years, we were soldiering through,
pulling together but feeling alone,
traversing aloneness together

Now there is now, and I hesitate
to say too much. There is wonder
in what we are living out,
day after day, and there's promise,
and the impulse to keep the page
open, and empty,
until it is written each day.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 25,  2021

After Summer

 

The little yellow flowers
that filled the field this morning
have almost all closed up by afternoon,
the clicking orange-winged grasshoppers
continue with their short and busy flights,
the tousled seed heads, dandelion-like,
shake in the wind and sometimes let seeds go

Here at the top of the heat arc of the day,
it could almost be summer,
except the breeze is cooler, kinder,
and there is moisture in the ground,
and there's a poignancy
to the sharpness of the curve,
lending urgency to insects,
brightening colors by bending them down.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 24,  2021

The Knowing

 

There was space in the morning
to allow
for the tiniest of yellow flowers
to open
just half way  - a trumpet bell on a stem

And space,  in that tiny harmony
to account
for all the interweavings, subterranean
and above,
all the ideas that had to be here first
for all this to unfold,
from the smallest to the largest

All of this
had to be known,
and this is our gift,
that we are the knowing.
This we are given,
and this we give, in turn.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 22,  2021