Hope – a poem by Charles Hughes

                  . . . looking beyond / . . . to the / bright place, where 
                  their undaunted / spirits were already walking.
                  —R. S. Thomas, “Two”

Hope falls like spring rain,
More miracle than an art
We strive to attain.

Hope roots in the ground,
A lush rose garden—hidden
Partly, partly found.

Hope hovers like dreams
We wish we could remember,
Like music that seems

To come from nowhere
We know, eternity’s theme
Spilling from a tear.

A young man at dawn
Singing to himself, walking, 
Waking, now a yawn,

Then he’s emptying
His small boat of rain water,
Forgetting to sing.

Pain his love endures
Seeps into his mind. His hands
Pause, longing for hers.

Sun shooting off reds.
Trees still dark on the far shore,
Toward which the boat heads.

Hope is born naive, 
Conceived, as it is, in love,
And can’t help but grieve,

Though day may reveal
Hints that time won’t prove itself
Ultimately real.

Through the lake’s damp chill,
He sees they’ll be together
Always, as they will.

Charles Hughes has published two books of poems, The Evening Sky (2020) and Cave Art (2014), both from Wiseblood Books. His poems have appeared in the Alabama Literary ReviewAmericaThe Christian Century, the Iron Horse Literary ReviewLiterary Matters, the Saint Katherine Review, and elsewhere. He worked for over 30 years as a lawyer and lives in the Chicago area with his wife.

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