one can tell a little
maybe even, a lot

about what “hope” means to someone

as the garden’s fruits and blooms
are winding down,
on verge of frost,
light or hard

in October

will they glean the last remnant of the apples and pears from the trees for sauce, butter or crisp

or will they leave them be
for
the deer,
rabbits
raccoons,
possums
or marmots

will they cut the last of their garden’s
snapdragons, borage,
zinnias, marigolds, amaranth
and bring them indoors to fill vases for their temporary gaze

or will they leave them be
that,
an errant
monarch,
red admiral,
honeybee,
moth
or hummingbird

may find
a hibernation,
migration,
or last supper
meal

a sweet sustenance
an oasis lifeline
a traveling mercy

allowing stem and blossom
their natural means and end
filling bellies with trace nectar, then filling the bellies of birds with insect and seed,
and then, the land with seed and leaf litter, the hollowed shafts both winter housing and next spring’s nursery

all, for a known and unknown future

this is how “hope” un-becomes an empty word,
a pretend wish,
a campaign slogan, a mantra, a triteness,

and be-comes
a
physical and metaphysical
act

“‘hope” is the thing with feathers”

or fur,

or scales,

or blowholes,

or empathy,

or vision,

unselfish,

in solidarity,

“hope” is the thing that resists, and never stops resisting,

dearest Emily.