I want to hate hope
because I know
the cost of hoping
and the harrowing
loss of losing
all the time you spent
amusing yourself
with the chance
of something else.
I want to hate hope
because when things don't go
according to dream
what seems like an
earthquake shatters your
heart, and what seems
like suffocating
smothers new starts.
But also--I know a kind of
hope that tips the scale from
fear to love-swell,
from given up
to test my luck
from empty nights
to sun that's bright.
Sure, things might change either way.
But when they do--
when the sky turns blue and
the seasons renew--
it's hope that reminds you
to give up your stronghold,
to soften and bloom, too.
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