Hoping against all hope
can be harder
than being entangled,
when your best shots have been jangled,
a la rope-a-dope. . .

But there’s a stubborn human tendency
(at least in me)
burning infernal
that just won’t give up,
and wants what I want
toward me to flow
to bring much more than hope
springing eternal.

So I focus my eye
on the prize,
and look for the light
and the day and the time,
when lush fields will yield
a rich garden,
to nourish and flourish
from its fresh grown beings vernal.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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