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POETRY
Hope’s Fire
Our winter prospects were looking bleak:
we’d forgotten to cover the wood pile
and now it was rain-soaked, almost moldy
neglect was sprouting in mushrooms
in the dankest spots
this cherished hoard was useless now
dumped out of sight and un-tended as it had been
We knew it would never do more than smolder
it would never catch
What it needed was care,
and time exposed to the sun
time to dry and learn to yearn with thirst
time to awaken
time to gather itself into tight knots ready
for the spark that would ignite it
into a bright flame capable of spreading
warmth, of being a beacon light on a hill,
a galloping wild shining conflagration of hope
It only takes a spark
when the time is right
This poem is in response to Wry Welwood’s recent prompt in Scrittura, to write about hope. Check out what he wrote:
Hope is a favorite subject of mine, not only to write about, but to cultivate in my life. AND to attempt to spread to others.
Readers, thank you! I hope your 2024 is ringing (or at least whispering) with hope, so far.
