Under limbs bare of leaves but still with summer’s warmth we find hope
on top of wool blankets that scratch bare skin and know this is
just one way to paradise -- surely there are others. Blindfolded
we cross the finish line hand in hand, battered
by our dance of finding mystery beneath the lies we dressed
our public face in.
Shall we dress our desire in rags?
Or offer it as a tithing to a distant godhead? And
if we do neither, what angel will cast
to rock on blue-green waves in
search of distant lands until parched and pleading the
moon sets us free on the shores of our cloistered universe.
I return time and again to the challenge of the “golden shovel” poem. I find it offers just the right mixture of challenge, structure and opportunity to spend time on a particular line or phrase I read that stuck with me. In this case, Connie J. Jasperson’s #FineArtFriday musing on Hope by George F Watts 1886 had a line that grabbed me and would not let go: “Hope is blindfolded, battered, dressed in rags, and cast adrift in the universe.”