Hope is a hurting thing,
hope is a breech birth. Hope will
tear you apart. Maybe it has feathers, Emily
but if so they're razor-edged,
broken-glass-tipped. They slice
my palms to the bone. Hope is
a bloodletter. Who ever said
that hope was fragile? You can no more
crush it with reason
than concrete can hold down oak roots
or even blades of grass!
If it were not so,
who among us
could live?
Collection available! Knocking from Inside
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Hope and Feathers
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1 comment:
Wonderful! I have never heard hope described in such a visceral way. Usually it's dreamy; or cries itself to sleep. Your hope has power; creates it's own future.
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