No life is wasted if it can move a heart.
No heart is hardened if it can touch a soul.
No soul is lost if it can still reach out,
grab hold, hang on to life,
and move a heart, and touch a soul
and roll around the circle
just one more revolution.
#232
The sleight of mind that palms
truth up a sleeve and
replaces it with hope and horror
and so the illusionist dreams
reality out of anticipation and fear.
Reality, the illusion.
What is a year but an unwieldy barge
that drifts on a river of dreams?
What is desire but a broken oar
that we use to stem the stream?
What are words but a patchwork sail
that occasionally catches a breeze?
What is hope but a tattered chart
of strange, exotic seas?
But the river is wide, and I’ll sail my barge
I’ll ply my oar, and search my charts,
I’ll raise my sail at each passing wind
and if I see you flounder, friend,
I’ll heave to and lend a hand
and together we’ll set sail and
disappear into the setting sun,
Until another year is done.
#366
I
A wild guess is hope
imbuing reality
with cherished outcomes.
II
Predicting the past,
an educated guess is
just calculations.
III
But every guess hides
elements of hope behind
facades of logic.
#205
Hope springs eternal
Spring hopes are eternal too
That’s why we garden.
Though deer nibble shoots,
bugs skeletonize leaves and
aphids slurp plant juice,
late frosts breath icy death,
too much rain, or too little,
drown and parch in turn.
Quack grass strangles roots,
the wind sucks the soil dry,
and slugs vandalize.
Northern gardening
has it’s challenges, it’s true
but hope springs, Spring hopes.
#163
Linda Studley 