Another day it smells of coffee:
the kind my mother found whilst traveling,
brought back with her from the islands
discovered on her cruise.
It fills a warm house,
the inside cuff of a woolen cardigan;
sitting on a bus, waiting anxious
it would comfort you.
Hope tastes like a cough sweet,
reminds you of the time you lay in bed,
sits on your tongue, hums like a gun,
an alpine forest, sharp
ice cube. It’s a pike gliding
or a small boat
bobbing up and down
on a broad horizon, green land
rising into view.
It’s a bell ringing, sail stirred
blue sunlight over hull. Hope
would anchor you. Touching it,
you’d 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 was here
it would watch for you,
search hands, know -
which of us might need it most.
It would move quietly,
pressing string
into palms.
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