Hope
Hope is a grain of sand,
a distant pin-pricked star.
And hope is a small green shoot
sprouting from a tree stump,
the first step on the long path home,
a dry bone’s breath.
Hope is a cell dividing,
a hidden embryo growing,
a sighting in the midnight sky.
It is like buried mustard seed
or hidden yeast.
It is a touch, a word, a look.
It holds a loaf of bread and two small fish,
a donkey’s mane,
a cup of wine.
Hope is the sound of a curtain’s first stitch tearing,
the first songbird’s note on a dawning day;
it is in the quiet placing of a folded linen cloth.
Hope is in the garden,
on the road,
at the beach
and in the home.
Hope goes for walks,
builds fires,
eats bread
and barbecues fish.
Hope is not dead.
Hope is
alive.
