Hope (3)

May 21, 2008

Another day it smells of coffee,
the kind 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,
move quickly – press string

inside your hands.

On the other side of this
deep night – someone else is cupping palms;
is feeling beating, wings breathing.

Something small.

3 Responses to “Hope (3)”

  1. 1morepoet said

    nice, well written piece

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