April 16, 2024

where there’s hope

At the bridge on the Ducktrap River trail, the water a tumult of spring. 
Behind the woman who’s five dollars short, and the cashier who waves
the debt away. On a phone call with a young man who says, “I feel better
than yesterday.” At the arrival curb of any airport. The next season’s line
of swimsuits. A fresh pair of shoelaces. A full bottle of Windex. The words 
"What can I bring?” A clean spade. An empty wheelbarrow. The wall of pens
at the art store, and squiggles of ink on scratch paper. Each boulder 
on the breakwater. The swivel of a headlamp. A gas station out of nowhere. 
A dinner conversation that spills to the living room. Borrowed sugar.
The person on the other end of a letter, and also the letter.