All Manner of Hope

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

 

It’s easy to misinterpret shadows–

and to not know whether or not the moon

is the moon or a scythe.

 

Up to, and beyond the point of imagining

anything, it’s good to remember it’s all

up in the air.

 

And yet, bees, those librarians of the day,

still hum about their work, and drapery

still follows the form of the body.

 

Strings yield to tuning, and leaves fall

on the backs of elephants, and ants

caress each other with their antennae.

 

The day, with all of its movable parts

(and, for whatever reason, takes excursions

into the realms of faraway, while at the same time

 

concentrating on other things), is always

at hand, but loosely so, and without shame,

for there is no sin in wanting tomorrow.

 

No matter how we see the moon,

the shadows—darkness can be luminous

and within its folds all manner of hope.

 

Take comfort in not knowing. Mysteries

are the way into the wonderful, and understanding

even a moment, isn’t the end of the road.