Hope arrives in the dark.
She is not a perfectionist.
But on a gloomy morning,
when the way is unclear,
she comes talking options.
Hope is not full of false cheer,
so close she is to the elements
we will sometimes not recognise
her quiet appearance.
How she is like
the ordinary garden tree
nurturing her seedlings.
Or the friend
with unexpected stories
to impart,
a type of solidarity of experience
giving reassurance.
Or the artist painting silvery grey
into her sea scenes,
that the waves catch the light,
seem to dance.
Yes, hope arrives unpacking herself,
as though we already had
a room prepared, tea on the brew,
the stove stoked.
For if hope had asked to be invited,
which of us would have got out of bed,
not least set a date,
written an invitation?
But hope is precisely looking
for those of us not seeing
beyond the tree line, or the high fence
with its locked gates.
At those of us
solemnly gazing at nothing,
and seeing it moving,
a pool of sorrows.
Hope is really
the grandmother of us all.
ushering us out for walks
with gumboots and sticks to wave.
How she has counted faithfully
all the puddles to our houses,
that on embarking out with hope
we can extend our imaginations,
are now pirates,
or damsels
in distress being rescued.
How we’ve been recharged with inspiration.
Yes, hope arrives in the early morning,
not worrying about the state of our houses.
And has already found the bread,
is boiling eggs, making toast soldiers.
That we hear her before we arise,
walk down our hallways smiling.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
March 2022
‘Her ways are ways of pleasantness, all her paths are peace.
She is like a tree of life to those who take hold of her,
and happy are all who retain her.”
— Proverbs 17-18
Living Tree Poetry 