Hope

Hope is the hole we all fall into...

This morning,

before the birds,

before the half-furled ferns uncurled,

before the white-tailed deer

rose from their earthen impressions,

I watched in my sleep

as dreamed-up glaciers melted

into cocktail ice.

Waking, the night lay lazy

in its velvet sheet,

the river, full, rushing,

tossing & turning in its bedrock.

I carry my fear outside

& lay it on the bank

amongst the cold slugs basking

on their slick stones.

Everywhere the quiet traces

of their evening rituals,

a silver prayer upon the earth,

marking it holy.

Everywhere the trace of human hands

lays heavy on the land,

& in the cups of my palms

the river bellows and moans

like some maimed creature -

Like a beast bleeding out.

There is a certain dichotomy,

an inevitable cleaving of the heart,

that comes with loving this world.

To know one’s privilege

is to know one’s sin.

Our stain upon the earth,

and the earth’s upon us,

marking us holy.

But then,

watch,

listen -

do you hear it?

The first of the birdsong

pierces through the darkness.

There is light now,

a weak tendril coming like a fist

from that splice of night.

What is hope but a slice,

a cut, a wound,

that we cannot help but touch?

A deep depression,

a bottomless depth,

and the river filling it,

churning,

pulling us in.

Hope is the hole we all fall into,

haplessly, the sound of it -

like a bellow, a base drum

beating, like an animal

baring its teeth,

bleeding into our hands.