Another day it smells of coffee,
like my mother found in Panama
returning from her cruise.
It fills a warm house,
the inside cuff of a woolen cardigan;
anxious on a bus, it comforts you.
Sometimes, hope tastes
like a cough sweet, reminds of the time
you lay in bed - sits on your tongue,
hums like a gun, alpine forest,
sharp ice cube. It’s a bell ringing,
sail stirred - blue sunlight over hull.
Hope anchors you. Touching it,
you feel dunes - feathers,
the clean bowl of a silk bag,
the balloon cord that you tried to grab
but missed, as a child.
If hope were here -
it would watch for you,
would move quickly,
press it’s string into your hand.
On the other side of this
wild night - someone else cups palms;
feels beating, wings brushing -
something small, light as fire.
I really like this-the move revised form works. Lovely mysterious ending.
I like this, the comparisons you make and the ending