Hope, Nearly Not There

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 ten individual dandelion seeds float in the air against a blurred, forested background.

What Is Holy to Humanists

By David Breeden

From WorshipWeb

Late in his life, the philosopher Richard Rorty — a well-known atheist — was asked by an interviewer if he could define holy. Perhaps the interlocutor thought the aging and dying Rorty would be stumped by the question or would fall into some traditional language of reverence. But Rorty was not...

What Is Holy to Humanists