This Kind of Home

The evening air is sweet-
scent of raked weeds
and walking on the land,
carrying water

 Ravens and robins and blackbirds
fill the gloaming with their joy

This is better than comfort -
The warmth through working,
the togetherness that stretches out wide,
and these birds, this land, this sky.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 8, 2020

Day’s Report

The wind began to blow cold

though the day was still sunny,

and we delayed our work

and then had to persist

through windblown bands

of overcast and sun,

and after awhile

it felt good and fresh to be working

And then it started to rain 

and it started to get dark

and we kept working

till the plants were planted

and deer-protected —

less than we’d hoped

but enough to be satisfied.

When we had dried off

and started a fire

and stoked it till the cabin warmed up,

and scrounged some food

and tended to the water

we were too tired

to do anything else.

©Wendy Mulhern

February 28, 2020

Precursor

The birds seemed as happy as we were

for the return to the land,

for the spring

or its precursor,

the time of prodigious effort

we can now set to,

the time for making home

and for noticing

that it’s here.

©Wendy Mulhern

February 24, 2020

Feet Feels

My feet suddenly remember

how they tingle in damp grass —

my toes stretch and grasp the feeling

and I consider

taking off my socks and going out

It is as they remember —

a little colder, maybe,

and the grass bends flatter underfoot.

There are fir cones in the grass,

small birds trilling from afar,

and soft socks to return to 

in the house.

©Wendy Mulhern

February 22, 2020

Bicycle Winds

Tailwind now — enjoy your ride —

you will have headwind

on the other side,

strong gusts will blast

and beat you down

all the way along the sound

But wait — no need to prearrange —

winds make no promises —

they change,

in their direction and their force,

with no attention to  your course

See how today you are attended —

someone who the wind’s befriended,

playful with your hair,

playfully pushing you along,

freshening the air

and joining in your song

So bring that spirit home —

bring it on inside,

until the new engagement

of tomorrow’s ride.

©Wendy Mulhern

February 16, 2020

Presence

It isn’t a unifying force —

It’s much more gentle than that,

simple as sunshine, the present fact

of what’s here, of what properties

always are seen

in the way things move,

the way they interact

We can know we belong

in any here we find ourselves,

because we, too,

move like that —

gentle necessity,

the nature in which we rise.

©Wendy Mulhern

February 14, 2020

Above

And for now

I can sit like a low cloud

above the scenery,

I can be within the rain,

it can be something

that isn’t falling,

or it is, but I’m still here

There is a peace,

a suffusion of quiet glows,

a sense of being untouched

by what moves below,

letting my being be determined

not by my will or effort,

but by what moves in me

and makes me what I am.

©Wendy Mulhern

February 11, 2020

Starting Point

Every life has some deserts in it.

So I start with this — wind driven sand,

searing dry heat

and the sweeping of everything

till it’s bleached clean

I’ll start with this,

fighting my words back

to the starting point

through the cluttered

piles of mundanities

back to where the pure essence gleams

I start here in this desert

because of how clear

across the bones and rock

rings the voice of God.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 22, 2020

Low Points

It isn’t bad

to have to cry

in spite of how

the sun has spun

the grass heads into gold

and wind has gently ruffled ducks

and all in all 

it was a fine day

These low points

come in sometimes

like nomad clouds

that mass and gather

and move through —

They will go as silently

as they came. Either today

or tomorrow — whether

bringing rain or not.

Either the sun will melt them

or bright laughter

will chase them off. 

©Wendy Mulhern

December 27, 2019

Softening

The softness of the day at three

is a fine gift — softness of wind,

warmth from the sun,

a softening of urgency

to get things done,

a sense of progress,

a sense that our release,

while not in sight as yet,

could come some day.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 3, 2019

Edges

Frost lines the edges of our days,

encasing them with torpor,

lacing us with eagerness for warmth,

of which there is enough, still, in the middles,

for us to work, for us to dream

And in the morning and the evening,

fire is our friend —

it takes the edge off,

fills us with ease again.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 28, 2019

Gravitas

Life, as it turns out,

is not always instructional —

less and less so, in fact, these days

There is a statement

in the curl and color of a fallen leaf,

the reddened stems 

of blackberry and bracken fern

But they don’t seek to teach,

just to be,

just to let the light of this one

moment of afternoon

glow through them,

just to rest in light gravity

against the cool ground,

or to stand still

in the pauses between the wind.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 26, 2019

Attended

Before the sun set,

the first silvered wisps of fog

began to form low in the valley,

tending slightly upward

as they drifted south

Five minutes later

the valley had begun to fill,

fog rising between trees

setting off the different distances,

the fall colors  looked more red

amid the rising clouds

Meanwhile, behind the hills,

the sun had set

and the sky was turning red,

marbled and magnificent

And I thought: here, just here,

is exactly where I want to be,

above this valley and on this journey,

upward as I’m led, attended by beauty.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 22, 2019

Visitation

I say no to this cat

but she proves I’m not serious,

pushing her way nose first

into my lap,

waving her tail in my face 

We compromise —

she gets to stay here

if she sits still,

if she lets me write

As for the mind of cats —

she must think it very strange,

all the little things I find

to busy myself — pointless things,

when I could be affording her a lap,

reveling in mammal warmth,

feeling the sunshine

There is a place

for butterscotch fur

and a tail that waves just so,

and a secret hunting side

to keep sheathed,

except for a touch of needle claws

against my thighs.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 12, 2019

The Season Turns

I lit a fire this morning,

up before dawn,

before the sun slowly glowed

through the fog

Hot water rippled from the kettle

for my tea, the cabin

filled with warmth by then,

daylight peaking in

Later, for awhile,

the sun warmed everything it touched,

but evening finds us hoarding warmth,

holding close to heat sources,

seeking to absorb enough

to ease us through the night.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 1, 2019

Meaning

With infinite patience

I’m brought round again

to learn the new meanings

which are the old meanings

from before the world began

I will learn them

here in the calm of late afternoon,

here in the rain washed, sun graced moments

when the turkeys wander back

from across the field

and crickets sing softly

and grasshoppers click

This isn’t something

I could ever learn alone,

and the great wonder is,

I don’t have to.

©Wendy Mulhern

September 19, 2019

Answering the Call

At the call of rain

so much green springs eager —

it doesn’t calculate

its prospects for the season,

whether it will become

a spreading plant or just a small sprout —

the rain has summoned it

so up it comes.

©Wendy Mulhern

September 18, 2019

Respite

In the wilting heat

the songs that come to me

are ones I’ve sung before

or heard so often forty years ago

that all the notes are etched deep in my mind

The same with words, with poems,

as lines I’ve read and loved come back to me,

along with ones I’ve written,

and the only way to find new words

is to seek shade, and the space it brings,

for leaves, and lines,

to hold themselves full.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 5, 2019

Looking Forward

We stand at the brink of August

and consider the color changes —

grass from green to flaxen,

daisy stalks to brown

Sunflowers dominate the garden,

tomatoes coming in,

red tassels forming on the corn,

unknown peppers in dark green

There will be other years

when we can shepherd this,

when we have time and infrastructure

to tend the land —

for now we’ll do the work

to make us ready for it,

so we can read the signs

and understand.

©Wendy Mulhern

July 31, 2019

Before the Rain

I sit on the cabin porch

and wait for the rain,

listening to thunder

and the rattle of the neighbor’s tractor

as he tries to get his grass mowed in time.

The wind comes up, the daisies and the firs

send message —

I can smell it, I will see it soon

A doe is nonchalantly

grazing in the meadow,

little birds are quiet

while trucks keep rolling home,

and the rain is here

fresh and rhythmic on the roof,

the place we are suddenly grows small

but we are dry

and there is room enough.

©Wendy Mulhern

June 27, 2019