Hope, Nearly Not There
Hope, Nearly Not There
Poetry

There’s no package called hope.
Nothing at a shop to look for. Hope
won’t store like hay in a barn. It is a

last leaf on a branch in deep winter.
It is a singular thing, firm when it’s
found—a hand reached out. A word

to the marrow. Hope is fine-grained,
like lavender gone to seed. Gossamer,
a moth’s wings. There’s no weight

called hope. It’s a hand; a whisper;
a moment shared. Nearly not there.
But, like a shadow, there all the same.

About the Author

  • The Rev. Dr. David Breeden is senior minister of First Unitarian Society in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He has written several books on theological topics and translates the writings of philosophers of classical antiquity.

For more information contact worshipweb@uua.org.

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