I have never written a poem about hope.
This realization surprised me when it came.
I have written on so many subjects —
odes to grief and love and the people who taught me of them,
sonnets for each ray of sun that parts my curtains,
haikus for the trees and the birds singing from their branches.
I have certainly written about hopelessness.
And yet
I get the feeling
that every poem I’ve ever written
like every breath I’ve ever taken
is woven through with hope.
When it hides,
where I find it,
what it whispers.
I see hope where eggs lay vulnerable.
The soft goo of new life
cased in thin calcium
held gently in the foraged nest
stuck together with spit and determination.
I see hope in the caterpillar
who builds a cocoon
surrendering to the dark
dissolving into goo
with no promise of wings.
And yes
when the leaves begin to fall
when the throaty call of the crane grows faint
when the humid air drops a few promising degrees
I see hope in the children.
I see it in the shy, tiny footsteps of kindergarteners
the boisterous laughter of middle schoolers
the friendly teasing of high schoolers.
Even on days when feet shuffle sluggishly,
smiles fade,
and banter becomes bickering,
hope remains in every corner of the classroom
hiding among the cobwebs and eraser shavings.
It grows in the school garden
spreading its roots in soil
tended by weathered, knowing hands
and pudgy, grabbing fingers
working side by side.
It swells with the protest cries of the school walkout
bolstering the bodies fueled by shared fruit snacks
and the knowledge that change starts here.
It is even found falling softly from the eyes of a child
who comes to school after the hardest night of their life
and tells their teacher
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
When a student has none
hope is offered back to them
in a classmates hug,
a staff member’s advocacy,
a teacher’s encouragement,
a safe shelter to weather the storm.
This is our nest
our cocoon
foraged and built
from brick and drywall
from fierce, unwavering love.
We create this container
not to hold the hope
but made out of it.
We welcome the children to it,
and though the journey is sometimes dark,
and may require dissolving into goo,
we do promise wings at the end.
