The Moya View

Bringing Hope Home

They brought Hope home in crisp 
sunshine on a cloudless day to a
backyard overlooking a forest.

Just a mother and daughter, a shovel,
a smallness wrapped in a ziplock bag,
born four or five days before.

The lack of rain had hardened the earth
and the digging was unyielding work, an
hour of frustration before the ground yielded.

Finally, Hope was laid, the earth made smooth,
solid. Their arms still warm, they thought good
thoughts, prayed for Hope and others passed on.

The mother tried not to dream of her other
children yet to be born— the daughter of her grandfather not dead a fall and winter.


The morning they brought grandfather home
was a rainy day before the first true freeze
and then snow. A bury quick day

before the earth would turn cement in
the drying cold, forming slivers of crunchy
cold taking hours and hours to dig through.

The earth besides the hole was still slushy
and the clods of earth pushed easily into
the grave, muddying them all over.

The mother and child stood over the
mass of tissue and blood and former
life, a remembrance clod in their hands.

The clod in the mother’s would nourish
future Hopes- the one in the child’s would
embody this Hope lost so soon, be placed

atop the mound in the forest under the old oak
where grandfather rested close to home,
so he could see and feel and know

the day they brought Hope home.





One response to “Bringing Hope Home”

  1. caroline46 Avatar

    Hope springs eternal

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