April 29, 2008

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: