And as for us, poor fumble people,
all we need is cuddles,
cuddle of the deepest sort,
that feeds the soul,
that soothes the heart
and makes us know
how dearly we are held

We all come crying, masked, of course,
in our bravado, the efforts we all mount
to prove that we amount to something,
that our presence counts

We ask for others
to give us what we need
but they, too, flounder,
flailing in the chasm of their lack

Ah, if we only knew,
in truth, for certain,
what’s already given,
we wouldn’t need to struggle and to sink —
we’d rest, serenely, in our present heaven.

©Wendy Mulhern
February 10, 2019