A Poem for Hope

I don't write poetry very often, but sometimes I do. I wrote the following a few years ago. With the recent passing of my dear aunt, it seems somehow appropriate to share.

Hope

Your world is different from mine:
Run by ceaseless watchdogs
Who use guns and sticks
To protect trembling sheep
From unrelenting wolves.

If I am sheep, as you say,
Then I am in good stead
With lambs who sought wolves
To fill the wolves’ hearts with love:
Jesus, Martin, Mahatma.

But I don’t think of myself
As a lamb, nor as a lion
Roaring alone in the wild,
Nor as any animal of the earth,
For no body may contain me.

I am the wind: free and fleeting,
Intangible yet felt,
Unseen yet strong;
Wild with the breath of God,
I move, I warm, I inspire.

I am the evening caress
Through a young woman’s hair;
I fill the nostrils of the old man
With promise for a new day.
I drift where I am needed:

I rise on currents
And sink into ebbs
To stroke the ear of a young child,
Fraught with fear. I whisper, “It’s okay.
Go out and play!”

She listens if she wishes;
She ignores me if she must.
But she sees her future
(Or one telling glimpse)
Whether she knows it or not.

 © 2008-2015, Greg Gildersleeve

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