To have hope is to want an outcome that can improve your life in some way.
It's the feeling of wanting something to happen and thinking that it could happen.
We're guessing about an action that might occur in the future.
Looking back at the past, it's easier to see where the system broke,
where there were forks. Branches. Roots.
A flat tire. A boat that ran aground. A battle with the flu.
We hold our breaths and wish for gills.
Staring long enough into the darkness improves your vision,
and when the snow falls, freezing and mute,
you'll be able to spot the small dots of color.
The tiny movements, imperceptible. Your whiskers will twinge.
We curl our toes into the loam when the moon is like this.
There's an earthy smell with a hint of copper, damp and churning.
She falls down a little more often this time of year, her knees and shins bruised.
But she stands up. One morning, she even put on lip gloss.
No one could see it beneath her mask, but it had a taste like cherries.
She'd gotten used to the smell of herself.
Every day we face the same litany of questions:
Why are you grateful?
Do you feel angry? Tired? Hopeful? Is your throat sore?
Did you lose the taste of your food?
The results produce a chart that usually glows red
because we're angry.
The ice is melting. There are many ways to wait,
but time is running out.