This morning I realized I was feeling something
I hadn’t in a long time,
though the cedar and spruce may not have noticed me,
themselves dancing in the cool late summer breeze,
nor the robins threading the grass with their beaks,
seeking worms, nor the sky the color of humpback
whale milk, or so I’m told, nor the river that listened
to the plucky birds, but the wind, perhaps, intuited,
suddenly glistening as if the air were filled
with thousands of tiny silver glass beads,
and the robins hopped,
and that feeling I barely recognized, hope,
hope rose from the back of my throat
like a love song I wanted to croon to no one in particular,
or to everyone, proclaim that all is not lost,
rain is coming, and more sun, and worms are wiggling
in the ground, some not to be found, living on,
and the lotus continues blooming in our pond,
all is not lost, not lost, not lost,
not even the darkness that holds the stars together
in this glorious poem of a shared cosmos we call home.
