From once to somehow to somewhere,
The brittle language of hope cracks
Between my teeth, much as ice
Cracks beneath my boots as I,
Unhurried on a wax gibbous morn,
Make my way to the car.
For what is hope but an admission
That what is is not enough. Take this –
The assertion that on this day,
In this winter, it is the care of a step,
The purchase of a sole,
The purchase of rubber on ice
That holds this teetering balance
Upright above the ankles.
I’ve little hope beyond that.
I’ve little hope for I know come April,
In the surety of swelling streams,
Each once somehow somewhere
Dripped from the mind,
Stripped from the hope-bound winter,
Will babble on to the sea and die,
While the earth sinks a little
Beneath my feet.
Image: Steve Johnson on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Really enjoyed this Devon. The first verse is especially pleasant on the mouth of mind 🙂
The second line of the poem is fabulous! This is a read more than once poem. Great job.
Outstanding piece, Devon.
Your opening is powerful. I often ice skate on the thin ice of hope where my daughter’s health is concerned. “For what is hope but an admission That what is is not enough.”
Thank you, Susie.
D