No Subject
A poem for Sunday
Hope exhausted years ago
but I still try.
Heart thumps on doggedly
and wants to know
if nice surprises might in time arrive,
and mind likewise. I read
to keep a lookout
unbeknownst,
or make a wild surmise. I dream
the ground I plough and plant
might even now
sprout greenery I never saw before
and not, as I expect, remain
as rolling oceans do in falling snow.
What's Your Reaction?
