Hope comes in an assortment of flavors.
Lemon flavored drops of childhood,
scattered wisps of fragmented memories;
puzzle pieces boxed up in grandma’s attic,
now dusty and neglected, but once
a treasure trove of endless possibilities,
like the wonder and imagination now stored
away for a more convenient time.
Cherry popsicles were devoured on a summer’s day
as two best friends melted in the sun
and dreamed of their futures.
Unpack the wonder; drink again and live.
Chase after the future that became present,
wrestle it to the ground, and laugh in awe.
Taste the bittersweet licorice flavor,
the sort that lingers on the roof of the mouth,
leaving an aftertaste of unadorned hope:
Faith that the darkness only reveals
a brighter moon, more brilliant stars,
knowledge that true hope waits for
things not seen, things only dreamed of.
Night seeks to drown out all color,
leaving only dark and darker,
but the kaleidoscope plays hide and seek,
patiently waiting for the sun to reveal color
as our unaccustomed eyes squint to greet
the dawn. But before that time we close our eyes,
trusting that the celestial orbs will continue shining
as a still night lulls us, spinning dreams
that guide us towards true beauty, better than
our technicolor imaginations
or limited palates could hope.