Hope

He travelled far,
With dying brown leaves
In search of hope.

On a lonely kayak
Crossed the seven seas,
In search of hope.

Hope, this year around,
Is not a black eyed susan,
No cherry blossom in spring,
Or swaying sunshine in a lagoon.

It is waking on a wet morning,
Not aching from ripples of a memory.
It is basking in the beauty of a moment
In the absence of drum-rolls of longing.
It is in the passing and passing of ordinary days,
Filled with quiet comfort of having nothing to wait on for.

Hope, this year around,
Is not half-fullness of a cup,
Nor an abstract sign from providence,
Or glint of blue leaves on a purple sunset.

It is carving a divinely fragrant verse,
Not played on strings to woo a beloved.
It is possessing a well-concluded story,
No longer desperate of the need to share.
It is a warm cup of tea with crackers,
And a bar of chocolate sufficing as bliss.

Hope, this year around,
Is in being who you are,
And that being enough,
Enough reason to smile,
Smile each afternoon,
And walk all the way.


Oct 7th, 2009