My hope has large hips that can’t fit into jeans bought just a few weeks ago.
Boisterous, seldom unwelcome,
hope shows up,
always shows up.
Hope sings in the back of my head,
insistent, calling me forward in joyful anticipation.
It doesn’t need to be on tune,
just loud,
regretless,
like a child that doesn’t care how its voice sounds,
just that it gets to sing.
My soul is made mostly of hope,
wandering out into every storm
wearing as little as possible,
eating ice cream
looking for someone to dance with.
Don’t be surprised if you see hope smearing itself all over the sidewalks in town, wantonly, drunkenly, happy to see you and sully your clothes with its many bizarre colors,
as it hugs you through your stubborn silence.
Let hope crown you a fool this day, make you blush.
We all need to see you looking like a goofy puffed up child stuffed with marshmallows and laughter so that we can all love you with delighted abandon.
