Already the frost has come,
both intricate and merciless,
and it has taken the basil,
the green beans, the zinnias
and whatever hope we had
that summer might never end.
We knew our hope was irrational,
but that’s never stopped a hope before.
Every day there’s more evidence
against hope—the headlines,
the angry boy down the street,
the child bride in Afghanistan.
And still it rises up, slightly
browned, but still shining
like that marigold bloom that was hiding
beneath a sunflower leaf—
it should be frosted and dead, but
it’s not. Damn hope. Never
acting the way we think it will.
May it trick us forever into choosing
to live another day. And after a long winter
when we’re sure it’s gone, may it always
reseed, putting up dozens of starts.
Not all of them will make it. Some will.
This one is wonderful, such a pleasure in the tone of voice that grows as the poem continues. It’s the phrase “Damn hope” that establishes the crescendo, I think, and those two lines that follow cinch the poem for me. Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me the poem should end at
“May it trick us forever into choosing
to live another day.”
What follows that is not so “chilly” and for me it softens the effect of such a fine tongue-in-cheek conclusion. Something to ponder is all I can say…