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