Hope . . . 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 Review, America, The Christian Century, the Iron Horse Literary Review, Literary 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.