there was never much left for me to say,
insofar as I didn't know how to articulate it or,
if I did, I no longer possessed the energy to do so.

Hope comes stranded, like a helium balloon
left to wander the skies once released
at a city parade.

A child not yet wise to the knowledge
that helium
is lighter
than air
imagines she can let go
to weave her little shoes
into secure knots with
both hands,
so by the time she looks up to find this renegade bulb,
it's nothing more than one of what could be
ninety-nine red balloons
floating in the summer sky.

In this sense,
it could be said hope comes
from all angles,
regardless of whether this
little drip of serendipity
is gifted by accident,
intention,
or
simple curiosity.

Existence always hurts.
But it's our challenge to choose
how it hurts:
will it be a chronic sickness unto death,
inspiring moroseness and jaded apathy?
Or will it feel like gym pain,
as if liquid gold has pooled
into every open crevice
of bone marrow
so the ache is nothing
but
a
friendly reminder
of our living vitality
through having
expended
the body,
mind
and soul
in satisfaction?