There’s no package called hope.
Nothing at a shop to look for. Hope
won’t store like hay in a barn. It is a
last leaf on a branch in deep winter.
It is a singular thing, firm when it’s
found—a hand reached out. A word
to the marrow. Hope is fine-grained,
like lavender gone to seed. Gossamer,
a moth’s wings. There’s no weight
called hope. It’s a hand; a whisper;
a moment shared. Nearly not there.
But, like a shadow, there all the same.