Sighs Are a Hope Language

Ambiguity as a hope-glow in the palm.
Pinball in the world bumping hillsides

like echoes. Nothing is singular;

our wholeness broken together,

more swollen than ever. Passport color;

sweet, earthy, deathly vapor.

I want back when I said I don't care.

When I meant I’m unsure, I meant

I cannot pick. And that the thing,

any thing, is blurred in the glow of us.

Ping it! Let it ride. Let it bump, echo,

& collect. Beside the thing, wherever

it lands, a nudge from a warm stirring lump:

bluebird eggs, lilac seeds, and a snoozing

baby squirrel. Cute and cute and need.

Happenstance of magnets from the wind, it must be.

I sample it each morning (Ping it!) because this

much I’ve begged for: Ambiguity, soft-chittering

bird business, and a slight side of routine.

Hopeful friends for this quiet wild game.