Tag Archives: hope

The Dirt End

It has come down to
the dirt end of winter:
one last lucky penny
lost in my coat lining.

I had saved it to pay
for small
and flightless hopes.

Copyright Kay Winter

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One Small Thing

Cut one silk stitch
and no longer live
in the small space of yesterday.

Let the day fall behind you
like a pebble into
a dark pond.

One step through
the gate
(see the green morning meadow)
and the path turns
a sudden corner
out of the shadow.

Let the shadow fly away
behind you
like a paper blowing
through rain.

One word spoken
into noise
(or silence)
and a new song
begins
(hear the tuning
of the instruments
in a nearby room).

Let the noise
(or the silence)
fade away
like the silence
of the sun falling
on another earth.

One small thing
begins
all things.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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Dark Dance

I have danced
with the path of the darkness
crossing the badlands
as dusk falls into night.

I have danced
in light so bright
both sea and sky
are gone into it.

I have danced through sudden rain
and funnels after leaving
and across swift rivers
and through green lost paths
and Tuesdays like cement.

And I know nothing but
that my movement
danced my hope.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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Hungry for Sadness

Some days I am hungry for the sweet sadness
and the silence of the long gray afternoons
in my hometown library.
Alone with a pale green book,
I sat, always, at the quiet back window,
overlooking the fading snow.
The waterclock of unspoken words
(oh, my loneliness!)
as I wove dreams I frayed on fear.

Copyright Kay Winter

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Solstice

As this season balances
between light & dark,
the magic
is that the light’s return
promises hope
in spite of darkness.

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Trailways 5

There was a last snow
the day before I left.
The late March sun is melting
what’s left of it
onto the wet streets.

My bus ride was
just an hour or so
to your red-brick hometown
on the river.
I rode easy,
leaning forward toward the window
watching as the sun glinted off the snow,
the wet road,
and the river,
down below.

Now, I am waiting for you
on a bench
just outside the station
My face turned up to the sun
my eyes closed,
listening to the gurgle of
the thaw,
waiting for your hello.

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Trailways 4

On page 54 or so you
realize that you are also
changing your life.

Your long winter
is over.

Isabelle, the headstrong woman in the book,
strides across the cover in a turban.
She put on mens’ clothes,
worked her way as a deckhand
across the Mediterranean,
sailing to Algeria.

You are sailing north along the mighty river,
in a bus, wearing the same jeans you wore all winter.

You read on.

Isabelle’s caravan is winding at night
under the stars,
further and further into the desert.

You are going to a new home.
One you’ll make.

The cottonwoods will shimmer,
on the slope down to the lake,
the leaves dusty green on one side,
silvery on the other.

You will find a dock there
to sit at the end of,
at the close of each long day.

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