We approach the year’s end
as uncelebrating
as every brown leaf
that blows along the ground,
as every squirrel that scuffles
among the leaves,
as every insect sleeping in its dried up stalk,
as all the crows that have gone home by now

It’s just one day into the next,
the rain, the fog, the winter light,
the stillness of the evening,
the morning’s breath

In other times, in other energies,
we made a mark here,
found some significance,
some grand design for change,
but this time round we’re flying low,
conserving strength,
hugging the curve of darkness
till the light returns.

©Wendy Mulhern
December 31, 2019