Hope

A Dickinsonian poem reimagined in a New Jersey spring

Hope 

Hope is the sticky mud
That stops you in your tracks
And holds you back for one more look
As winter fades to slack.

But underneath its boorish slop
A worm wiggles with glee
And he knows just how the spring awakes
And how soon it is to be.

It then makes way for things so grand
The shoot of grass, the tallest tree,
And when kiln-fired in its hardest state,
It’s a home to share and a cup of glee.