Hope

Too small for U. S. Cents,

Too rare to be in historical museum,

Too heavy to make sense,

Too abstract to dwell in the hands of the child.

.

A shooting star soars cross the sky,

A spark flashes through the squeezing rocks,

A lightening flies by,

A basket of wool to make warm socks.

.

All promises freeze like ice,

All greetings ring like bells.

All gamblers focus on the dice,

All smiles ripple under the spells.

.

Hides behind the time that flies,

Dances in the hands that knit ties.

Hope is like the invisible air,

It makes stirs everywhere….

*****

Monday’s Child:   Monday’s Child

Poets United Poetry Pantry

Jingle Poetry Monday Poetry Potluck

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