~KAY MULLEN~

YOU ASK WHY I LEFT

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Seed begins with a stir, a tremble
of sand, a tick of rain before thunder,
Like a tinge of sun on a web, light

steals over the rim of morning,
the wren awakens to what it can do
in a day.  Who can say how lavender oil,

lilac or hyssop can quiver the scent
of a summer potpourri, or a poem
leaves a tremor in its wake.  Neither

the bee-eater in its nesting burrow
nor the boreal owl in its hollow can offer
the bird-seeker answer.  A water strider

skims the surface. The bog turtle waits
with the patient heron through marshes
where motion is miniscule, a change

in direction is certain.  Quest demands
a destination—a place for unknowing to
stand against disquiet, to steady the dream.

 

© by Kay Mullen