Saturday, March 9, 2013

Barbara Crooker: "Hope"

Winter sunlight, fool's gold, pours in the south window,
fails to warm. Weak as tea, pale as bone, insubstantial
as dust on a mantle, water falling over stone.
The ground outside, hard, white as the hospital bed
where my friend waits after her marrow transplant,
hoping her white count will rise. I watch birds at the window—
sparrows, titmice, finches—the plain brown, the speckled,
the ordinary, no flashy travelers up from the tropics,
where winter is a verb, not a state of the heart.
I go out to fill the feeder, feel silky grain slip
through my fingers: millet, proso, corn. Little birds,
little angels, singing their small song of consolation.
A thin drizzle of sun slips through clouds,
a strand of hope against the icy odds.

"Hope" by Barbara Crooker, from The White Poems. © Barnwood Publishers, 2001.

Photography credit: Unknown (originally color).



  1. I read this one, and read it over, and all I could say to myself was "wow!"

  2. "a strand of hope against the icy odds." Some days that's all we have. So much captured in such a compact poem.


Thank you for participating respectfully in this blog's community of readers.