Observations on Hope


Smoke of incense, even when curled across

Its own question, is perfectly balanced.


Candlelight, although by definition rising

Upward, is in essence motionless.


There have been nights, so black that one can’t feel

For surfaces, or signs of what is there;


Yet calmed awhile there’s light enough to sense

That lack-of-light: we see what we can tell.


And though it weeps, the most deserted heart

Can only overflow with surplus love


Or it weeps not; just as a window pane

Though clear, in sunlight, becomes saturate.



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