Hope is a fragile thing
When it rests on any shoulders.
You've carried my hope, at times,
Like a juggler carries his apples;
Other times, like a young mother
Who cradles her newborn babe,
Protecting him,
From the wolves that circle 'round the yard;
Other times you are the wolves.
There was hope then,
Where butter knives tripped locks
And shoulders broke down doors;
The landlord was not pleased
But I had to make sure that you would still be there
Holding up your half of my life,
My dreams still cradled in your palms,
The deftness of your green fingers still tending them.
There was hardly room for hope
As soles of feet became crusted with eggshells.
I never learned to stand still
When the floor was littered with them,
And the floor was always covered.
"When did we replace hardwood floors with these?"
I chanced to ask once.
February's gale was my only answer,
Coming early
To strip bulbs, tinsel, and needles from branches.
Our hope turned to stone
In the furnace of our anger,
Each wagging tongues of flame
At the splinters in the others' eye,
Each too full of pride and fear
To stand with tweezers before the mirror.
The sudden rush of crimson humility
Could have healed the wounds that Pride inflicted,
But Pride was wrong at the top of its voice.
Hope has fled now,
But it has not gone far.
It has fled into the wilderness
And come back to watch for me
From the woods outside our door,
Where no adventurer worth his salt
Could ever fail to find it,
If only he has the courage to begin the search.
What will we do here, my beloveds, without hope,
Here where knees scrape carpet and hardwood,
Where backs, once straight, bend in equine condescension?
Saddles and bridles made of love we have,
We have no need of hope,
Here where tomorrow will always be forgotten
In the long, golden now.