I have been thinking
about lifting
like the three-lobed leaves
of the potted shamrock
on my counter.
They rise and fall
with the cycle of the sun.
When I first realized
this is what they were doing,
I was awestruck.
If I were a shamrock,
I would spend the entire night
longing for the flow of energy
up my stems
that would fling my leaves aloft.
What I mean is,
can I count on hope
to always be there?
We trust the sun to rise,
even when a storm darkens the horizon.
The fire of it burns
regardless of our ability
to see it behind the clouds.
We may not feel its warmth,
but we know it’s there.
Spider-web delicate roots
drink hope from the soil
and by an invisible sun’s power,
shuttle it through trusting stems.
I raise my hands.
The sky opens,
raining hope.