Just as you give up,
there, through the trees,
you see a clearing
and though it’s exhausting
to be hopeful again
when there’s so little
to show for your hope,
you walk to the clearing
and there in the moss,
hundreds of chanterelles.
When you leave
to reenter the broken world,
some of the hope
sticks to you like tiny burrs,
able to seed themselves
anywhere you carry them.
By noon, nearly everything
seems possible.